Victims of Fate
by XFauxAfflictionX
Summary: -Discontinued- Having failed the king's orders to capture Eragon and Saphira twice, Murtagh and Thorn are severely punished. They have only each other, and flee, if only for a few hours. It is then that Murtagh meets someone who may change his life drastically.
1. Chapter 1

**Victims of Fate**

**A Tale of Murtagh and Thorn**

**Part 1**

Murtagh panted and struggled to stay upright as Thorn's unsteady movements jarred him in the saddle. He held the pommel with his right hand, his left held to his temple. He had healed Thorn's injuries when the afflictions had been administered, but the residual pain he was feeling filtered into Murtagh's thoughts, thus becoming his own. His body screamed in protest at every movement; his exhaustion and battered state shared by his young dragon. The warm sensation of blood trickling down his face from the cut Eragon had inflicted reminded him that the mental damage done in his battle was not solitary. However, on the contrary, all his ailments were the least of his worries. This was the second time he had been sent out upon oaths to Galbatorix to fetch Eragon and Saphira, and this was the second time he would return empty handed. The thoughts of his and Thorn's punishment the previous time seeped into his thoughts, as did the memory of his own agonized screams being matched and surpassed by that of Thorn's. He cringed at the memory, yet was unable to push it from his thoughts.

A myriad of emotions flooded him then, some his own, some seeping in from Thorn; anxiety, aversion, regret, and most of all, fear. It was the strongest of the emotions, and it was purely his own. He felt a pitying growl emit from deep in Thorn's throat.

_Please do not fret over this my Rider,_ Thorn said, the statement ringing through and shattering Murtagh's previous thoughts. _You truly fought your hardest, and by some stroke of luck, Eragon bested you._

_Luck?_ Murtagh replied, his fear swelling up again. _Luck? You know as well as I do that Galbatorix will not accept 'luck' as an excuse. No. No, this time he will outdo his previous fit of rage, and I fear I bare not the will nor the strength to survive him again._

_Please don't say such things,_ Thorn replied, a gruff undertone creeping through his retort. _Besides, he needs you and as long as he does he will not kill you nor I._

_There are worse things than death, _Murtagh said, and the memory of his and Thorn's screams crept through him again, causing him to shudder. He leaned forward and patted Thorn's neck as he said, _Fly slow my dragon, for the more time we are away, the more time we evade his torture._

Thorn didn't answer, merely rose fifty feet in the air and caught a draft. He spread his wings to their full length, let the draft catch them, and rode it, for this was surely a more leisurely pace.

The hours it took to traverse the distance between Surda and Uru'Baen felt like mere minutes to Murtagh as the giant black sculpture loomed just ahead of them. Murtagh hadn't spent a moment of the flight not immersed in his fears of facing Galbatorix a second time. His body had given up on protesting his pain and exhaustion, and he trembled with every effort of not collapsing. Thorn huffed a great sigh as he descended toward the building, slowly drifting against currents of air until he landed lightly at the base of the castle, rear legs first, then front. He flapped his wings a few times to stable his balance, then pulled them to rest at his sides.

Murtagh unbuckled himself from the saddle, swung a leg over and dismounted, much like dismounting his old horse, Tornac. He stopped, still facing the large, muscular shoulder of Thorn. The fear and fatigue overwhelmed him then, and he buried his face against Thorn's shoulder, his scales brushing Murtagh's face. He gritted his teeth in an effort to calm himself, his entire body still trembling. He could feel Thorn's sorrow and compassion as he snaked his head around and touched Murtagh gently with his snout. The touch helped him to composure, and he pushed away from Thorn, angling his face in a scowl. He was Galbatorix's resident Black Hand, and he would hate for his walking-dead soldiers to see weakness. He gritted his teeth as he entered through the giant stone doors, on each side of which was standing one of the aforementioned soldiers. They sneered as they watched him and Thorn enter, knowing full well that they had failed their mission… again.

He snaked his way down a long corridor, which was large enough for Thorn to follow. Thorn stood unusually close, Murtagh supposed for moral support. He growled low and deep at any soldier who offered a snide smirk at them, and a grin graced Murtagh's lips every time. He wound his way for several minutes, his heart racing against his chest. Just as the two of them were upon the open door of Galbatorix's throne room, a soldier stepped forward from his post. The man was only slightly taller than Murtagh, but his build, however, was much larger. The man sneered, showing his unattended and rancid teeth.

"Empty handed again, Darkheart?" the man scorned, using the name many soldiers _graciously_ bestowed upon him. He despised it, for his soul was not tainted on his own accord.

Murtagh's fear and hatred and many other emotions all boiled into anger at that moment, and he never made an effort to restrain himself as he said, "Hold your tongue you miserable, maggot infested wretch!"

As he said this, he grabbed the soldier by the chest plate of his armor and threw him to the ground, his heightened strength making no chore of it. The man's armor clanked as he hit the ground and Murtagh spat at him. The man opened his mouth to verbally retaliate when he was halted by the booming voice from within the room calling, "Murtagh."

A shiver ran the length of Murtagh's spine when he beheld the sheer distain dripping from Galbatorix's word. He composed himself, straightened, and stepped over the soldier into the large, empty stone room. He heard Thorn growl at the soldier as he passed, and the faint scent of smoke met him, but he dared not look back.

Galbatorix sat in his high-backed throne, the dragon wing shape of it casting his features in shadow. He was strumming his long, witch-like fingers on the arm of the chair, and his rings clanked, the sound echoing throughout. A chill ran through Murtagh again, but this time he managed to conceal it. He warily approached the few stone steps that elevated the King's throne, daring not meet the eyes of Galbatorix. He observed the large, walking-dead soldiers on both sides of the throne. He went to kneel, but hadn't realized exactly how worn he was, for both knees buckled, and he fell on all fours at the base of the steps. He panted, fighting his weariness, but didn't move to right his position.

"My lord," he greeted, his voice gruff and worn out.

"'I shall bring them to you', you swore," Galbatorix stated in an icy voice, his frustration clearly audible. "'I shall never disobey your orders again', you swore."

Galbatorix let his statements sink in, and sink they did. Murtagh knew he'd sworn so in the ancient language, and his oaths were binding. And he truly had attempted with all his might, this time.

"I am sorry, my King," Murtagh managed, his voice breaking. "Truly, I attempted with all my ability. Somehow, he has become stronger than we-"

"Silence!" Galbatorix hissed, not loudly, but quiet like a whisper, which inflicted more fear than a shout would.

Murtagh clenched his teeth and fists, and continued to stare at the ground beneath him.

"I shall be the judge of that," Galbatorix said, and the sound of leather brushing armor came to Murtagh as Galbatorix rose from his seat.

Murtagh dared to look up at Galbatorix, and the face he saw made him wish he hadn't. The King's face was set in an angered scowl, and his height gave him the appearance of a giant who had been wronged. The aged man slowly pulled off his gloves of leather, and threw them into his throne as he descended the few stairs to Murtagh. Murtagh's fear spiked, knowing that whatever the King had in mind would not end well.

"Rise," Galbatorix hissed again through angrily clenched teeth, his voice never rising.

Murtagh struggled to push himself to his feet, and even when he had, he didn't meet the eyes of his King. His fists clasped so hard that he briefly registered the pain of his fingernails digging into his palms, but threw off the sensation as Galbatorix raised a hand. It took all of Murtagh's composure to keep from flinching away.

To Murtagh's surprise, the touch was gentle. Galbatorix stroked down the side of his face with four fingers, studying the young Rider. This scared Murtagh even more, for he didn't have the slightest inkling as to Galbatorix's intentions.

"Your father was such a loyal servant to me," Galbatorix said, his voice still so low that only he and Murtagh could hear. "I find it a pity that his eldest son is such a _disappointment_."

Galbatorix growled the last word, and with it, he penetrated Murtagh's mind with such force that he gasped out loud. Out of habit he threw up his mental barriers, and Galbatorix swept them aside none-to-gently, like a newly sharpened blade through parchment. Murtagh grinded his teeth and slammed his eyes shut as the pain of Galbatorix's mental probe became overly unbearable. Galbatorix sifted through Murtagh's memories of the battle, pausing on the moments when Saphira had nearly driven them into the ground. Still taking no care to be gentle, he continued to the end, when Murtagh had had his mental struggle with Eragon, and ultimately failed. Galbatorix withdrew from Murtagh's mind suddenly, and, no longer bearing his physical and mental torment, he fell to the ground.

Galbatorix growled in frustration, turning away from the fallen Rider. Murtagh remained on the ground, panting and trying to force himself to cope until he was in private. He could feel Thorn's anger at Murtagh's pain, his empathy, but the dragon didn't dare move from where he stood. Galbatorix turned back and leaned down, taking amusement in Murtagh's anguish, and drew Zar'roc from its hilt on his hip. Murtagh made no effort to stop him as he slowly walked away and seated himself in his throne again, staring a condescending gaze at Rider and dragon. As Murtagh struggled to his feet on shaking limbs, the King leaned to his right and whispered a few words to his soldier. As the soldier grinned, Thorn growled, baring his teeth in anger.

_What?_ Murtagh thought to him, not having heard Galbatorix's statement.

_He says you are to be flogged,_ Thorn thought back, controlling his reaction at the flared look from Galbatorix. _Forty lashes._

At the prospect of having to endear any more pain, he nearly screamed, but contained himself.

_And what of you?_ he asked the crimson dragon.

_I am to be imprisoned in the hold for ten moons with no food or water._

Murtagh cursed to himself, and managed to stand upright, his body still protesting.

Galbatorix didn't speak again, only motioned with his finger, and the soldier stepped down from the throne and took Murtagh's arm in a vice-like grip and dragged him from the room, stumbling. Thorn obediently followed.

They reached the hold first, and Thorn hesitated as the soldiers who guarded it opened the large door.

"You want him to suffer more lashings, go ahead and fight us," one of them spat.

Thorn went from staring at Murtagh with a concerned air, to seconds later snarling at the soldiers, plumes of smoke gliding from his nostrils.

_It's all right, my friend,_ Murtagh said wearily to Thorn. _I'm stronger than you think. I'll be alright. You conserve your strength._

Thorn looked back at him with curved eyebrows that said millions of words about his sorrow. _You take care of yourself, Bjartkala,_ Thorn replied as he turned and entered the hold.

The nickname Thorn used was one he'd come up with to counter the soldiers'. It meant Bright Eyes. He said it was so because even with their entrapment and virtual slavery, Murtagh's character never changed. While his body and mind belonged wholly to Galbatorix, his true identity shown through in his bottomless eyes. Like a brilliant star in the heavens, Thorn had said. Shining bright, never changing.

Murtagh fought back tears as the doors to the hold were shut and bolted and he was dragged away by the large soldier. In any other situation, he would have fought until his lungs collapsed for Thorn, but he knew his efforts would be in vain.

For a pass of time that Murtagh didn't care to count, he was dragged down long hallways, usually struggling to keep his weak legs from giving way with each step. At length, the two of them entered a room, which Murtagh plainly recognized, and his stomach threatened to throw its contents.

On each wall hung different instruments of torture and punishment, from irons used for scalding prisoners, to different knives and swords. Murtagh shuddered as the soldier led him to the far wall, slamming his back to it. The man never met his eyes as he unbuckled Murtagh's mail and undershirt and threw them to the ground with a resounding _clank. _Murtagh shuddered at the sudden cold as he stared at the floor. Without saying a word, the soldier took Murtagh's non-fighting hands and raised them above his head and shackled them into manacles. The restraints were hanging from the ceiling from chains spaced about three feet apart from each other.

This would have been strange to anyone else, for lashings were usually given on one's back. But Murtagh knew perfectly well the reason for this. Galbatorix wanted the scar on his back, given by his father, to be as clear as the day he'd received it. It was cruel, but Murtagh expected nothing less of their great King. Giving the lashings on the chest would also inflict quite a bit more pain, for the muscle wasn't protected with the likes of the spine. Again, cruel, as expected.

Murtagh took a deep breath as the soldier stepped back and retrieved the whip from a hook on the wall. It was wound in a hoop, and as the soldier took the handle, it unraveled at his feet. Again, in any other situation, Murtagh would have used his magic to free himself, kill the guard, and release Thorn and flee. But alas, he was held by the oaths of Galbatorix, and if he did any such thing, he would face the wrath of the King, and this seemed a much more acceptable fate.

The guard procured a vile from a pouch in his belt, which held a yellowish liquid. Murtagh knew well what it was, for he'd seen it before, when he had been punished for his insubordination the first time. It was a poison Galbatorix's alchemists had concocted for torturing those of magical talents. The liquid inside need only to be applied to any wound, and it prevented the victim's wounds from healing by means of magic. It forced prolonged suffering, and usually a break in the victim's sanity.

The guard poured a hefty amount onto his leather glove, took the whip, and smeared the liquid the entire length of the leather. He grinned his stupid grin as he did so.

"I just want you to know," he said as he stepped forward, "I'm going to thoroughly enjoy this."

Murtagh resolved himself to stare at the ground, biting his lip in frantic anticipation.

_Be strong, my Rider,_ Thorn's voice said, calm and collected, yet worry edged it.

Panic struck Murtagh.

_Thorn, no! Sever your connection with me! You have your own ails to worry about, I don't want you to endure mine as well! Please, I…_

His thoughts were broken as the first snap of the whip cracked against his chest. It was so unexpected that he bit down hard, right into his lip, and yelped a gasp of agony. He heard Thorn whimper for him in his thoughts.

_Please, Thorn! You should not have to endure my pain as your own. I haven't the…_

His thoughts misted over with a cloud of agony at the second snap, like the morning fog after a rain. Then the third came, and the fourth, fifth, sixth. He attempted to expel Thorn from his thoughts every time, but the dragon refused.

_I am not leaving you, Murtagh Bjartkala, so stop trying to make me._ Thorn's thoughts stopped as he let the next wave of pain subside.

Murtagh would have tried to reject him again, but the strikes were becoming more frequent, and quite a bit more painful, so coherent thoughts escaped him. But he never cried out, never showed weakness to his tormentor. At ten, his thoughts were misting, at fifteen they became ever more unreadable. But Thorn never left him. He talked him through, and at twenty-five, Murtagh became panicked and disoriented.

_Easy, Bjartkala. Listen to my voice. You are strong. Stronger than Eragon even, for you endure more than he. He has not the strength to remain sane in a situation such as ours. _

Thorn knew his speaking was helping, for Murtagh returned a warm appreciation. His agony prevented him from speaking in return, but he shared all his positive emotions with his dragon.

At thirty-five, he started to envision the things he loved; Thorn, long unsaddled rides on Tornac, the good times he'd had with Eragon, and Alagaesia's cloudless night sky when viewed from the lower atmosphere on the back of Thorn. This troubled Thorn, for if he was envisaging positive thoughts, that meant he was having trouble grasping the current.

_Steady Murtagh, only four more,_ he coaxed, one more strike having passed. _Just breathe._

Murtagh took his advice and steadied his breathing to the best of his ability as the final four whippings tormented him. As the last slashed across his chest, Murtagh gave in, his body shaking and shivering and his thoughts completely unsettled. He barely discerned the guard unshackling him, dragging him to an empty cell, throwing him to the stone floor. He hardly recalled the scream that issued from his lips as the force sent a shockwave of agony throughout him, making his whip marks throb. He never realized when he passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

Murtagh woke with a start as he heard the scraping of metal on metal. He jumped and sat straight up, every muscle in his body tightening. He gasped in agony and his vision started to dance with spots of black-lined silver. He leaned back onto the cold stone floor as he let his unstable vision return to normal, breathing heavily.

As soon as the spots subsided, he just craned his neck to see someone entering through the large door before him. Instinctively, his left hand flew to Zar'roc, and was met with an empty sheath. He vaguely recalled the recent events, for his mind had been so tired that time had passed as if he were watching from someone else's perspective. But the lashings… those he remembered sickeningly well. When his thoughts drifted to those, he peered down to examine the injuries and didn't like what he saw. The whip marks covered his entire torso, from the highest, located just below his collarbones, to the lowest, which marked just above his hips. Several didn't seem quite as bad, while others had broken the skin fairly deep. The more severe marks hadn't even stopped trickling blood yet. Besides that, there were also bruises on both wrists from where, in his agony, he had yanked on his restraints.

He peered at the door as an older woman stepped in; probably thirty-five summers or so. She looked worn and tired as she let the guards outside shut the door behind her. She held a burlap sack of unknown items, and in her other hand, a pitcher of steaming water. Murtagh merely sighed, not sparing the minimal energy he had on questioning the woman.

_Thorn?_ he asked quietly, and waited for the response.

_Yes,_ he replied, his voice serene and calming.

_How long have I been…sleeping?_

_Well, I haven't been able to tell the passing of time myself, but I'd say at least a day. You were very weak._

_I still am,_ Murtagh replied, realizing that his limbs felt heavy and his thoughts were difficult to piece together.

He paused his discussion with Thorn as the woman stood at the door, not moving, as if afraid.

"Um," he began, his voice extremely ragged. "I don't bite."

_Much,_ Thorn's voice said, and Murtagh ignored him.

She looked him in the eyes, and laughed loud and frantic, like she hadn't laughed in years. She smiled and tossed her long, slightly unkempt hair from her face with a nod of her head. She was older, yes, but it didn't hide the fact that she had once been stunning to the eye. Her hair was a rich, light brown, which contrasted her pale skin and thin frame. She wore a simple cloth dress that fell to her ankles, and her stance proved to be that of a cornered, wounded dog. Much like he must appear, Murtagh thought to himself.

She shuffled over and knelt beside him, setting down the burlap sack and pale of obviously hot water. He gingerly leaned up on his elbows, the stinging of his punishment causing him to shiver slightly.

"What's your name?" he managed, his throat hoarse from overexertion.

"Dara," she said quietly. "I'm a servant. My husband and son belong to Galbatorix's army, so it was fitting that I serve him as well."

She lifted a square cloth and dropped it into the pale of hot water.

"I see," he replied. "And he's… allowing this? To my knowledge, I am to suffer as much as possible."

She looked him in the eyes, then examined his chest, assessing the damage. "He is angry, yes. But he still needs you for his bidding, and if these were to get infected, you would be incapable. Consider yourself lucky that he needs you," she pulled the cloth from the pitcher, wrung it out, and turned back to him.

"Lay back, please," she instructed, and he did so, resting his head on his hands. "This may sting."

She lay the cloth over his chest, and he immediately gasped as the injuries burned and stung. He went rigid, biting his lip and grasping handfuls of his hair.

"Try not to tense, it will make them hurt more," she said, her eyebrows furrowing in sympathy.

He tried to obey, and as he relaxed, the pain subsided, however minimally. He panted for a moment, coping with the pain. The cloth started to cool slightly, and he relaxed further, peering back to Dara.

"Thank you," he managed through gritted teeth.

She offered a mere grin in return.

She let the cloth sit for a moment, then pulled it off, very gently. Dipping it into the water again, she dabbed at a few of the more severe markings, causing him to occasionally tense and wince.

"If it's not too bold, what did you do to incur such punishment from him?" she asked.

"This time? I failed the mission he made me swear oaths upon my true name to complete," he replied, becoming quiet as she hit another particularly sensitive spot.

She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean 'this time'?"

"I've failed him before. However, this was an evening under the stars compared to what he did to me… us last time," he said, again thinking back to his first punishment.

"Why do you think that is?" she asked as she removed the cloth and threw it into the pitcher.

He knew. He knew very well why. It was because last time, he had deliberately disobeyed his orders. This time, as Galbatorix had gleaned from his memories, he did actually try to obey. However, failure is failure in Galbatorix's eyes, that's why he had still been punished.

Quizzical if he should be sharing so much with this woman, he merely replied, "Not sure."

She seemed to notice his hesitation, and didn't question him further. She continued to dab at his wounds for a few seconds more, then discarded the cloth. She examined them again, then looked up at Murtagh's pained face. She seemed to notice the slash across his cheek, graciously bestowed on him by Eragon. She leaned forward and brushed it lightly with a finger. Amongst all his other afflictions, he had forgotten about it. Apparently she decided it wasn't in need of tending, then her finger went to his lower lip, where he'd bitten it. A sting made him flinch when she touched it.

"Wow, that looks unpleasant. How did you do that?" she said, pulling her hand back.

He flicked his tongue over it, having forgotten about that too.

"Oh," he began, looking away from her. "I think I did that when…"

"Ah," she said, seeming sheepish. "I see."

She reached into her burlap bag and pulled a few more things out. "If you can, I need you to sit up."

He grimaced as he attempted to sit up again, slowly this time. His stomach muscles trembled at the ache that welcomed them. He groaned slightly, moving as gingerly as possible. Dara rested a hand behind his shoulder and helped pull him upright, and thankfully, the dancing spots did not return. He pulled his legs underneath him, until he was in a kneeling position.

"Oh, Shur'tugal!" she gasped, and he looked at her, surprised at her outburst.

She was looking just between his dangling arm and his side, and she crawled on all fours around him, apparently to look at something. He followed her progress, then lifted his arm to look down at what she was so entranced by.

An enormous bruise covered his side, and judging by her expression, spread to his back. She reached forward and barely laid a hand on it. His vision jumped with the same black spots as a wave of agony so intense wracked him that his breathing halted momentarily and he wavered, his balance uneasy.

"Steady, Dragon Rider," Dara said, catching him by his bare shoulder to keep him from toppling over.

He steadied himself by leaning on one arm and slowly calmed his breathing, careful not to take too deep of breaths, and the spots slowly vanished.

"You all right?" she asked, leaning around him to study his facial expression. He merely nodded in return, not finding words yet. "This is a deep muscle bruise. How in Alagaesia did you get this?"

He thought back to the battle as Dara crawled back in front of him. He thought of the many blows he and Eragon had dealt each other, but none of the blows he took were bad enough to bruise like that. Then the moment came to him.

"The blue dragon," he said, not naming her, for he didn't know if Dara knew Saphira's name. "She clipped me with her wing. Nearly unseated me," he finished as she pulled a vial from the bag and poured some clear liquid onto another cloth.

"I can see how it would do that," she said, motioning to the part of the bruise that showed on his side. "Still, she may have cracked a rib, so try not to overexert yourself, okay?"

He laughed mirthlessly. "Fat chance."

She grinned in return, then looked him in the eyes. "This may sting, so if you feel like you're going to pass out, just let me know, okay?"

He nodded, and she leaned forward, dabbing at his chest wounds again with the cloth. He hissed a sharp inward breath. It felt as though a thousand tiny, searing swords were piercing him. The spots did return, but not nearly as aggressive, and after a few seconds, they vanished. Dara kept a close eye on him to make sure he was okay, and once she had tended each slash, she pulled out some sheep's wool gauze and a wrap of thin cloth.

"I'm going to make this rather tight, in case the dragon did crack a rib," she said as she spread the gauze over his chest.

He nodded, and she gently but firmly began to wind the wrap around him several times. Once at the end of the wrap, she split it down the center, tearing it around so she could tie it. True, she had tied it quite tightly, but it restrained his movement, and made the effort of actual movement that much easier and painless.

He stood cautiously as she packed her things into her burlap sack.

"Thank you, Dara," he said, her name sounding strange to him. He heaved a shiver as the cold of the stone room permeated his flesh.

"Oh," she exclaimed, and retrieved a simple white shirt and a wool blanket from her bag and handed them to him. He took them graciously.

She smiled as she walked toward the door, but paused just before it.

"You are a kind soul, Dragon Rider," she said without turning to him.

"Murtagh," he corrected her.

"Murtagh," she said, his name sliding off of her tongue much smoother than hers had from him. "Do not let him break you," she said, and left the room without another word.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

The room seemed eerily quiet after Dara left, and Murtagh continued to stare at the door as he heard the scraping of metal that signified the guards outside locking it.

_Well,_ came Thorn's smooth voice. _I stand corrected._

_On what?_ Murtagh replied.

_I was under the impression that everyone who served under Galbatorix was completely mad,_ Thorn said, a faint giggle trailing his words.

Murtagh smiled as he slowly raised his hands to put on the shirt, which proved to be a much more complicated task than previously thought. Not only did the wrap pull at his lashes, but the bruise on his side and back screamed in protest. But, with much patience, he managed.

_Thorn,_ he called, sitting against the back wall and sighing.

_Yes, _Thorn replied, apparently glad to just be talking with Murtagh.

_You deliberately disobeyed me,_ Murtagh said simply. _I asked you to sever your connection with me when I was whipped, and you disregarded my wishes._

Thorn's emotions passed to Murtagh, and they were thoroughly surprised and hurt by the statement.

_I am sorry, my friend,_ Thorn replied, very sincerely. _You were very weak and I thought you needed support._

_Yes, well,_ Murtagh began. _On that note, I genuinely thank you, for without you I may have gone mad._

Thorn's warm reaction spilled into Murtagh, giving him strength and vitality.

_And if you ever disobey me again, I shall never talk to you again,_ Murtagh said playfully.

_Promise?_ Thorn replied, and Murtagh could almost see the sarcastic smile gracing the dragon's scaled lips.

For the duration of the remaining day, Murtagh rested and regained some of his strength, as did Thorn. That evening, Murtagh was released from his cell and allowed to return to the room that passed for his own in this cold, dank prison, and Zar'roc was returned to him. He ate a little, but refrained from it for the pity of his dragon, who was to be starved for the next eight moons.

His was an enormous rectangular room, the stone walls and wooden doors making it seem like just another cell. On one half of the room, there was a crude bed; a slab of stone hanging from the ceiling by a chain at each corner. There was a blanket and single pillow on it, but it usually had mounds of clothes because the slab was incredibly uncomfortable. Since he hadn't been in for a few days, the bed was nicely made and clothes-less. Against the wall at the foot of the bed was an oak dresser, which Murtagh assumed all his clothes had been placed in by the caretaker. There were a few other noted trinkets, but otherwise, it was barren. The other half was designated for Thorn, usually. The wall opposite the entrance was home to a giant wood door, at least twenty feet high, which led out to a magnificent balcony.

The balcony itself was designed to be a perching area for Thorn, considering he couldn't fit in the winding staircase that led to the room. It was Murtagh's favorite part of his room, for it truly felt free. He could sit outside for hours, not feeling the claustrophobia his actual room provided. And usually, Thorn would lay quietly with him, dozing or just enjoying the day and snapping unsuspecting birds out of the air in a puff of feathers. Usually.

After washing his face in a basin of water that sat in the corner by his bed, Murtagh fled directly to the balcony to breathe the fresh air.

_I wish you were out here with me, instead of imprisoned in the hold,_ he said quietly to Thorn.

The dragon's replies were becoming strained, for not only had he not eaten in two days, but he had already been famished upon their return from Surda.

_Ah, but I can practically taste the air through you, _Thorn said, although Murtagh could hear the tension in his voice. Pity welled up inside of him as he faced the reality that this would continue for another eight days.

_I shall not touch a scrap of food until you can share in the joy with me,_ he said.

_Nonsense, you'll surely perish. We dragons don't need as much nourishment as you, so don't you worry. I'll be fine. You indulge as much as you want,_ Thorn said, his effort to sound stronger becoming obvious.

Murtagh merely sighed, peering out at the twinkling stars that peeked through the lurid clouds scattered across the sky. The crescent moon shone eerily from behind one such cloud, giving the sense of impending doom. Murtagh almost laughed out loud at the irony.

For the remainder of Thorn's captivity in the hold, Murtagh did mostly as he said he would and didn't touch a scrap of food for several days. Thorn highly protested, but Murtagh merely ignored him and drank as much water as possible and ate mere bites of bread when the hunger became too much for him. He stayed away from any and all people, for the only being that truly understood his situation was the one who shared in it. With the exception of Dara coming to change his bandages a couple of times, he didn't see or speak to anyone, especially Galbatorix. If the king believed Murtagh was afraid of him, he would be satisfied in his punishment, and leave him alone, at least for a small while.

The morning Thorn was released, Murtagh was sure all of Alagaesia heard him. The crimson dragon burst out of the hold with such force that the stones around the door and the door itself were pretty well destroyed. He flew straight around the castle to Murtagh's balcony, alerting the rider to his presence with a hearty roar.

Murtagh smiled wider than he thought he had in years and burst outside to bid his companion hello.

_It's been very boring around here without you,_ he said, patting the dragon on the shoulder.

_I could say the same, Bright Eyes,_ Thorn replied, shaking like a dog, as if to rid himself of the last few days. _Let's get away from here for a few hours._

_My thoughts exactly,_ Murtagh replied, then paused, puzzled. _Give me a second. I'll be right back._

Murtagh ran through his room, down a spiraling staircase_, _down a long corridor, and into the room that passed for a kitchen. There was no one occupying it, for it was still morning and the king wouldn't be needing his supper any time soon. He grabbed several loaves of bread, some cheese, and some fruit, and tossed them into a burlap sack he found on a countertop. He synched it shut with a string he found, and ran all the way back to his room and out onto the balcony. He approached Thorn and leapt up onto his back without bothering for a saddle. He tied the burlap sack to his belt, which was already burdened with Zar'roc.

_Hold on, _Thorn said, and without waiting for Murtagh to do so, hurled himself off the balcony.

Murtagh's heart soared into his throat as the feeling of weightlessness overtook him. He rose slightly off Thorn's back as they fell toward the rapidly approaching ground.

Murtagh couldn't help but grip the neck spikes in front of him with tremendous force. As Thorn neared the ground, his wings snapped out, the color of the sun hitting the thin membrane, making the land below seem ablaze. Murtagh's weight returned tenfold as the dragon pulled out of the dive and kicked off the ground for speed. Murtagh reveled in the familiar feeling of Thorn's shoulder muscles straining as they propelled his wings steadily up and down. The wind thrashed across his face in a howl and through his hair, causing it to whip his face. The sun beat down on both of them, warming their skin and casting dramatic shadows on the hills and plains of Uru'baen.

The two of them flew in silence for what seemed like days, just enjoying each others' company, until Murtagh's stomach growled, reminding him of his hunger.

_I'm hungry,_ he said bluntly.

You're_ hungry! _Thorn bellowed sarcastically.

Murtagh merely laughed, both in his mind and out loud, the freedom of it making him slightly giddy.

_Find somewhere to land, and you can hunt,_ he said, and before he had finished the sentence, Thorn had dove toward the ground.

Murtagh yelped as he rose off of Thorn's back and had to grapple for his neck spikes to keep from rising off the dragon's back completely.

_Warn me next time! _he said tersely, and Thorn laughed back as he skidded to a halt on a grassy knoll.

Murtagh swung a leg over and slid off, a minor shock running up his ankles at the impact. Thorn nuzzled him as he said_ don't wander far._

_You too,_ Murtagh replied and watched Thorn leap into the air, unfurl his wings, and do several spirals before setting off to search for game. He sighed at the sudden quiet and looked around.

Thorn had let him off on a hill that rose above a large pond that was riddled with cattails. Tiny birds flitted through the shallow waters, bathing and playing. The sounds of bugs and other birds gave it an air of paradise. On the opposite side was a dense forest that was shadowed by it's many soaring trees. Murtagh smiled as he descended the hill to the shore of the pond. Several birds chirped in alarm and departed from their perches quickly.

He took a deep breath, taking in the scent of the pond water, the cattails, and the green grass surrounding the area. He removed the burlap sack and Zar'roc, and threw them in the shade of a giant tree four or five feet from the pond. He grinned to himself as a thought struck him.

After several minutes of struggling, Murtagh stood on the shore of the pond, wearing only his cloth pants. He took a long, deep breath as he let the calm waters cascade over his bare feet. His chest was bare; no bandages. The worst of his whip marks had reduced to scabs while the less severe were mere discoloration. The bruise, however, had only shrunk a miniscule amount, if that. It was still as tender to the touch and colorful as ever.

He grinned wide just before flinging himself mindlessly into the cool water. The splash he created frightened the rest of the birds who hadn't already fled into doing so. Ripples cascaded over the previously calm surface as Murtagh reemerged and pushed wet strands of hair from his face. He brushed grime off of his skin and thoughtlessly waded through the pond until he was sufficiently clean, then made his way to his bag of food.

Collapsing against the tree trunk, he dug a loaf of bread from the burlap sack. Just as he broke off a piece and raised it to his lips, a crackling sound snapped behind him. Without thinking, he dropped the bread, grabbed Zar'roc's hilt, and leapt to his feet, the sword exiting its sheath giving off a metallic sound. He spun around the tree, and his sword stopped just short of a deeply tanned neck.

A young woman stood before him; strikingly beautiful, and completely petrified to have a blade at her throat. It appeared she had been carrying a cloth lined wicker basket, but dropped it when he surprised her, spilling mushrooms across the grass. She yelped as the cold steel met her skin. She was wearing a simple off-white cloth dress that dipped rather low on her bosom and trailed around her ankles quite elegantly. Her long fire-red hair fell in graceful curls to just below her breasts.

In any other situation, he would have lowered his sword immediately and apologized for frightening her, but anyone was a threat to him nowadays, especially since the Varden wanted nothing more than to have him rot six feet under.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his face hard and his voice unforgiving.

"M-Moira," she stuttered, her face still utterly terrified.

"Where do you hail from?" he said in the same harsh tone.

"Altair. It's a small v-village just north of Dras-Leona," she said, twisting her fingers together in anxiety.

He scrutinized her for a moment, studying her attire and manner. If she was an assassin, she wouldn't be dressed so, and she definitely wouldn't be this terrified of a sword. Either that or she was an extremely good actress. He sighed, just hoping it wasn't the latter. He lowered his sword, visibly to her relief, and placed it back in its sheath.

"I apologize if I frightened you. I am…" he paused, searching for wording that wouldn't give him away too much, "not desired by most cities. I must be cautious."

"Is that so?" she said, still tentative as she knelt to pick up the basket.

"Oh," Murtagh grunted as he knelt as well and helped her pick up the mushrooms.

"Why is that?" she said as she stood back up.

"I," he began, then stopped. "Can't really say. Let's just say I'm not a nice person."

She grinned, then seemed to notice that he was quite scantily clad. She started to look him up and down, then her eyes widened at the whip marks scattered over his chest.

"Oh my," she breathed, and he looked down, also realizing his scant attire.

"Oh, that," he said, feeling very naked. "Like I said, not desired by most cities."

She raised an eyebrow at him, then her eyes trailed a little and he noticed that with the water weight, his pants were riding terribly low on his hips.

"Oh, uh," he said, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable.

He turned and grabbed his shirt, hearing Moira gasp at the sight of the bruise and giant scar on his back. He ignored her as he gingerly put the shirt on, the cloth soaking as it touched his wet skin and hair.

"So, you uh… gathering mushrooms for supper or something?" he asked as he grabbed his half loaf of bread, dusting it off, and bit off a huge chunk. He wasn't in the mood to have good manners.

"No, I just enjoy sifting through manure and picking them," she said, smiling wide.

Murtagh slowly smiled, realizing how dumb of a question it had been.

"You uh, you enjoy swimming in tiny ponds in the middle of nowhere?" she asked, quite obviously mocking him.

He grinned and retorted with, "You enjoy gathering mushrooms in the middle of nowhere?"

Without missing a beat, she said, "Altair is only a few leagues from here. I rode here on my mare because the mushrooms grow well near the pond. I would recognize you if you were from Altair, so what's your excuse?"

"I," he said pointing at her and trying to come up with a response. "Oh, you're a witty one, aren't you?"

"I try," she said giggling and kicking at a rock by her feet in a girly fashion. "But really, where are you from, and what are you doing all the way out here?"

Murtagh was struggling for an answer when he heard the familiar _whoop whoop_ of Thorn's giant wings slicing through the air.

_Oh boy,_ he thought to himself as Moira looked around, confused as to where the sound was coming from. _This'll be fun to explain._

Moira's eyes widened farther than Murtagh had thought possible as Thorn gracefully landed just behind them, his wings causing their hair to whip about. He walked up behind Murtagh, furling his wings against his back as he did so.

_Who's your lady friend?_ Thorn asked in a provocative tone.

_Shut up_, Murtagh replied sharply.

Moira seemed just as terrified as she had earlier, and she began backing away, her lips moving in a silent gasp of _Thorn._

"Yes, I see you already know him," Murtagh said smoothly, trying to be as calming as possible. "Thorn, this is Moira. Moira, this is my dragon, Thorn. He's not as mean as he looks."

Thorn growled at Murtagh, the air that escaped his nostrils causing Murtagh's hair to whip across his face. Moira merely jumped at the sound and continued to slowly back away.

She stopped when Murtagh's statement of 'my dragon' sunk in.

"You're Murtagh?" she breathed, still looking frightened.

"Yes," he said, the claim sounding like a death sentence. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, I just… well, I knew you'd react the way you are. I am not the monster I'm sure your fables make me out to be. Nor is Thorn."

Moira thought for a moment, comprehending the event. She slowly took a step forward, seeming curious.

"So, you're not out on the King's business?" she asked, sounding like a child.

Murtagh laughed, "No, no. Just out for a… how shall I say… joy ride?"

She took another few steps forward, her eyes going to Thorn's massive presence.

_Hello,_ Thorn said, obviously broadcasting his thoughts to her as well. She jumped, startled, then looked around as if looking for where the voice had come from.

"Uh," Murtagh began, scratching at his temple, "that was him. He hears your thoughts, if you allow him, and vice-versa."

"Oh," she said sheepishly. "Hi."

Thorn bowed low, one knee hitting the ground momentarily.

To break the silence that followed, Moira began with, "So. Your Murtagh, huh?" The tone implied something, but Murtagh wasn't sure what.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said, his shoulders relaxing slightly now that he knew she wasn't going to shun the two of them.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that, I just wasn't expecting…" she trailed off.

_She said she wasn't expecting someone so attractive,_ Thorn said proudly.

Murtagh whipped around, scowling at Thorn. _Thorn!_ he yelled in his thoughts. _Those are private thoughts. Don't listen unless spoken to!_

_Yes master,_ Thorn replied sarcastically.

Murtagh rolled his eyes as he turned back to see Moira blushing brightly.

"He heard me, didn't he?" she asked sheepishly.

"Well, uh. Yeah. But don't worry, I told him not to listen to your thoughts unless given permission. Bad dragon," he said, and halfheartedly slapped Thorn on the shoulder.

Moira laughed loudly, and brushed a strand of fiery hair from her eyes.

"So what's it like? Being a dragon rider?" she said, taking another step forward.

"You wanna try it?" Murtagh said pointing to Thorn.

_I don't give pony rides,_ Thorn snorted.

_Alright, you look at those eyes and tell her no,_ Murtagh thought, and as Thorn looked at her, he noticed the dragon look somewhat confused. _Yeah, that's what I thought, _he said, and Thorn snorted.

"Oh, I really couldn't," she said, but her eyes deceived her. She was staring at Thorn in wonderment, longing.

"Oh come on, just a quick ride. I'm sure your family wont be expecting you for a few more hours," he said, pointing to her basket of mushrooms.

Moira sighed, obviously battling an internal conflict. She turned to look into the forest, and Murtagh noticed a mare, halter tied to a tree branch, lazily enjoying the green grass. He merely raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Alright. But just a quick one," she said, seeming excited, and placed her basket on the ground.

Murtagh smiled as he turned toward Thorn and led her over. Thorn laid all the way down to make it easier for Moira. Murtagh offered a hand as she crawled up the mighty dragon's shoulder and threw a leg over. Murtagh quickly looked away as her dress billowed out slightly.

_He just looked up your dress,_ Thorn said to both of them, and Moira blushed and put a hand over her mouth.

Murtagh punched Thorn's shoulder as hard as he could, then blew off the incident and crawled up behind Moira.

_You can carry us both, right?_ he asked Thorn.

_Usually, at this age, no. But because of this curse Galbatorix has on me, I think I'm strong enough,_ Thorn replied.

_Well good. Because I'm going to kill you for that comment,_ Murtagh said as he rearranged. Thorn merely laughed.

"Okay, a few basics before we go," he said to Moira. "You're gunna want to hold on to those spikes in front of you."

Moira reached forward and got a firm grip on Thorn's neck spikes.

"Now, have you ever ridden a horse at a full gallop?" he asked.

"Many times."

"Bareback?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Well, it's going to feel sort of like that, except as he's moving forward, he'll also be moving up and down. If I had my saddle, this would be much easier, but as it were, I uh… left in a hurry. So just try to move along with him instead of fighting the motion. That could throw you off balance. Understand?" he said.

"I think so," she said, a hint of exhilaration for what was to come accompanied by a hint of fear.

"Okay, I'm gunna need to just wrap my arms around you," he began as he snaked his arms around her waist and locked his fingers together. He felt her tense slightly at his touch, and he was glad she couldn't see his face because he knew it turned red.

_Humans,_ he heard Thorn say, but blew him off.

He pulled himself closer to Moira and rearranged his legs so they wouldn't hamper Thorn's wing movement.

_Go easy on us, if she falls she'll never forgive me,_ Murtagh said, and Thorn snorted loud, a puff of smoke accompanying his breath.

Thorn slowly walked forward, letting Moira get used to the gyration of his muscles beneath her. He unfurled his wings and crouched.

"Hold on tight," Murtagh said, and he saw Moira's hands tighten on the spikes.

Thorn leapt into the air, making the two riders feel as though they had just gained ten pounds. The crimson wings snapped out, taking the pressure off of the two of them as he sailed delicately forward.

Moira squealed, but only for a moment. Murtagh leaned against her so he could peer over her shoulder to her face. Her eyes had been shut, but she slowly opened them to look at the scene around them. She gasped at the height they had already reached. Her body tensed, just like Murtagh had warned her not to do.

"Relax," he said gently into her ear, and she jumped, as if just remembering he was there. Thorn raised another hundred feet with ease, catching a wind current and riding it so he wouldn't have to flap his wings to stay aloft.

Moira stayed tense for a second, then began to relax and move with Thorn.

"See," Murtagh said into her ear, "not so bad."

She smiled wide, her eyes peering around at everything around them; the small bunches of clouds above, flocks of birds nearby, the Ramr river to the east, and Leona lake far off in the distance to the west.

"Wow," she gasped, and straightened a little to get a better view.

The day couldn't have been more beautiful. The only hindrance to it's splendor was the dark form of Uru'baen in the distance, but Murtagh tried not to pay it any mind.

"Oh look, there's Altair!" Moira said, sounding like an excited child. She was pointing slightly forward and to the left, and Murtagh barely made out the spot that was her village.

_No wonder I didn't see it,_ he thought, then tore his gaze back to Moira's delighted face. Her red hair whipped about behind her, sometimes brushing Murtagh's face, and he didn't mind it at all. Her dress also thrashed about, the smooth cloth brushing against his skin softly. Just another thing he reveled in for the moment.

_Thorn. Don't do anything drastic, I want to try something,_ he said, and got an affirmative grunt in response.

Murtagh unlocked his fingers and brought them to Moira's tense elbows. She turned her head somewhat to peer at him questioningly.

"Let go," he said, and she looked at him like he was crazy. "Thorn's riding a current, nothing will happen. I wont _let_ anything happen, okay? Just trust me."

She looked at him for a moment longer before tentatively loosening her grasp on Thorn's spikes and letting go.

_Finally,_ Murtagh heard Thorn say. _For a while there, I doubted if she knew those were attached._

Murtagh almost laughed, but blew off the statement nonetheless. He tightened his legs on Thorn for a better seat as he lifted Moira's shaking arms out until they were perpendicular to her body. Gently holding her wrists, he slowly moved her arms up and down, much like the fashion Thorn did when flying.

When she realized what he was doing, she smiled and laughed out loud, the sound sending a shiver down Murtagh's bruised and scarred spine. She moved her arms with him, and for several silent minutes, they just flew.

Just when Murtagh was wishing for the moment to last forever, Thorn intruded on his thoughts.

_Sorry to disturb paradise, but it looks like this _Altair_ place is about to have company._

Murtagh looked in the direction of Altair, but couldn't see anything.

"Skulblaka sven," he murmured, and his eyesight immediately intensified to reveal a small group of mounted black-clad soldiers on their way to the village.

"Letta," he said, and the spell ceased.

Murtagh cursed under his breath.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Moira asked, hearing his curse.

_Thorn, take us down,_ he said, leading Moira's wrists back to the spikes with his hands.

"Hold on, we have to land," he said, and before she could protest, Thorn dropped into a sweeping dive that made Murtagh's heart jump into his throat. Moira squealed again, and held tight to the spikes in front of her.

In mere seconds, Thorn had skidded to a graceful halt on the same hill he'd taken off from. Murtagh threw a leg over and dropped from the dragon's back. He held a hand out and Moira took it. She gracefully swung a leg over, this time careful to hold her dress down with her free hand, and slid off.

"What's wrong?" she asked again, brushing her windswept fiery hair from her face.

"Thorn has just seen a small contingent of the King's soldiers on their way to Altair," he said, rubbing his temple. Moira gasped and placed a hand over her mouth.

"It seems I've overstayed my welcome. They're probably just recruiting, so you should be safe. Do you have any brothers?" he said urgently.

"One," she said, her eyes widening.

"You may be able to reach Altair before them if you ride swiftly," he said, jutting a thumb to her mare, which was still tied happily to the tree. "Warn him. Tell him to flee, hide, anything. Hell cannot be the torture that serving for that filth of a King is."

Moira thought for a moment, then turned to her horse. She stopped after only a few feet, and turned to face Murtagh again.

"You've given me a wonderful gift today, dragon rider," she said tenderly. She stepped forward and planted a sweet kiss on his left cheek. "I shall'nt soon forget it."

Taken aback slightly, Murtagh merely stared back at her.

_There isn't time!_ Thorn interrupted, and Murtagh was torn from his reverie.

"Hurry! You must go!" Murtagh said, pushing Moira away, afraid that if he didn't, he would never let her go.

"Will I see you again?" she asked as she backed toward her mare.

"Let us hope not, for if you do, it will be on the DevilKing's orders," he said, leaping back up onto Thorn's back.

"But what if I want to? How shall I find you?" she said, her eyebrows furrowing in sorrow.

"Times are hard, milady. But if you truly wish for me, you need only find the red ruby in the sky. For I shall be astride it, always looking for you," he said, and mentally prodded Thorn.

The crimson dragon took off, leaving Moira standing in the violent winds his wings left behind. Murtagh looked back, and his heart pained for her. The young woman stood for only a moment, holding a hand in the air, her lips forming a somber 'farewell.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

For the duration of the following week, Murtagh thought of nothing but Moira. She had barely known him, and yet she trusted him. She even enjoyed her time with him, which no one did in the present times. And the way she looked at him; it was that of a friend to a friend, not peasant to monster. She made him feel human.

At the end of the week, Galbatorix personally went to Murtagh's room to escort him to his chamber for further training. Galbatorix knew things about magic that Murtagh was sure no other person in Alagaesia, even the fair elves knew. There were secrets, short cuts around the drain of energy that magic took on its wielder. As well as lessons in dark magic, he sparred with him, seldom with armor or dulled blades. Galbatorix always rationalized this with, 'the enemy will not have them either.' This usually resulted in deep cuts and bruises.

After several days of this, Murtagh sat on the edge of his bed, wincing as he healed his many cuts with the utterance of 'waise heill.'

"Is this all life will be for us?" he asked Thorn, who was lying leisurely in his spot on the other side of the room.

Thorn merely looked back at him, no answer in mind.

"If Galbatorix is truly as powerful as he says he is, and he vanquishes all threat to his throne, we will remain his slaves forever. And if he isn't, and his kingdom crumbles, then the Varden shall surely kill us for our crimes," he said as he wiped his own blood on his pants.

_I would like to think that Eragon would show us mercy,_ Thorn said, licking his supper from his lips.

"Perhaps," Murtagh replied, standing and examining himself to make sure he hadn't missed any. He spoke out loud because he found the silence of speaking through thoughts to be too lonely.

A breeze blew in through the open balcony doors, making the many candles flicker. The changing of light caused specks of reflected red to dance madly over the walls from Thorn's scales. Murtagh admired them for a while, then the red color brought his mind back to Moira's gorgeous scarlet hair. He pictured her as he'd last seen her; standing in the wind, a hand raised in the air, her brilliant face burdened with the weight of worlds.

_You humans,_ Thorn interrupted his thoughts.

Murtagh looked at him questioningly, searching for an explanation.

_Oh, you just make everything more complicated than it needs to be,_ Thorn said, picking meat from in between his long white claws. _We dragons are simple. Us males put on a show for the female, and she either likes it and we mate, or she doesn't and we don't. There's so much gray area with you humans._

Murtagh considered for a moment before replying with, "who says that's not what I was doing?"

Thorn considered this. _Then I suppose she wasn't satisfied, huh? _

"No! That's not it at all! We had to leave, and she had to return home," Murtagh defended himself.

_You could have escorted her home,_ Thorn said, and Murtagh looked absolutely stumped.

"Well, the goal for us is not to mate; it is to find a respectable partner for marriage. You choose your rider, do you not? And you consider deeply before hatching," he said, proud of his answer.

_I suppose,_ Thorn replied, grinning, his white fangs shining in the candlelight.

"What's that stupid grin for?" Murtagh said, pulling a shirt over his head.

_You were extremely attracted to her,_ Thorn said, still grinning.

"Well yes, she was gorgeous. Perfect, even. You yourself told me all that time ago that Saphira was an incredibly well sculpted dragon. Am I not allowed the same courtesy?"

_I didn't mean that. I'm just saying that if you find her that appealing, why haven't you gone back?_ Thorn said, his statement met with silence.

After thinking on the question for quite some time as he washed his face in a basin, he turned back to Thorn and said, "because Galbatorix would notice we'd left."

_I didn't say _we._ I said _you, Thorn said, again met with silence.

Murtagh was utterly speechless. He had no comeback, no explanation as to why he hadn't gone.

"Alright. Fine. I'll take Tornac and I'll go now," he said.

_Now!_ Thorn huffed, _It's well past nightfall. How will you find your way?_

"I know what direction to go. As long as I keep Uru'baen behind me and the mountains before me, I'll surely find it."

Thorn studied him for a long while, then shrugged his massive shoulders. _Okay. Just be careful, and hurry back. If you're not back by daybreak, the King will surely notice._

Murtagh smiled, grabbed a few of his belongings, and turned toward the door.

"Get some sleep, my friend," he said to Thorn at the door. "I'll be back before daybreak."

Thorn nudged him lovingly with his snout, then turned to groom himself like a cat.

Sneaking through the castle without being noticed proved a much harder task than expected. There were guards at virtually every corner, and he couldn't use magic to conceal his presence because he knew Galbatorix would sense it. Nevertheless, Murtagh emerged into the stables, carrying his minimal supplies. Tornac peaked over his stall gate, nickered, and returned to eating his hay.

Murtagh made his way over to the stall, where Tornac's saddle was draped, gathering mounds of dust.

"Sorry I haven't visited, old friend," he whispered, entering the stall and brushing dirt from the horse's fur and mane.

The horse merely kept eating and stomped a foot as Murtagh tacked him. He synched the girth tightly, and the massive Fresian pinned his ears.

"Sorry," he said, patting Tornac's shoulder.

"Hello?" a small voice said, frightening both Tornac and Murtagh.

Murtagh stepped out of the stall to see Dara, peering into the darkness with a measly candle raised in her hand.

"Dara!" Murtagh exclaimed quietly, relieved to find that it was only her.

"Murtagh? What are you doing down here?" she asked quizzically.

"I'm going out for only a few hours. _Please_ don't inform the King. I'll be right back," he said urgently.

Dara furrowed her eyebrows, then lowered the candle. "You were never here. Now go," she said simply, and with that, she turned her back on him and walked back out of the stables.

_Right,_ Murtagh thought. He would have liked more time to question the woman on what, exactly, she was doing in the stables, but as it were, he was pressed for time already. Opening the stall wide, he mounted Tornac and heartily spurred the stallion forward. The horse grunted and leapt out of his stall and out of the open stable doors.

Murtagh had almost forgotten what an exhilaration it was to ride a horse. True, it was nothing compared to the brilliance of riding a dragon, but being astride an animal this much smaller than a dragon made Murtagh revel in the speed. When high in the air, it was easy to forget exactly how fast he was traveling, but this was entirely different. He had to stop himself from yelling into the night as he enjoyed the whipping wind over his face, and the heat of the horse beneath him.

It took nearly twice as long for Murtagh to reach the hill and pond, and from there, he rode another few leagues to a small, glowing village. There were no walls surrounding Altair, for it was viewed as meaningless when compared to the trading capital that Dras-Leona was. There were, however, guards doing routine walks through the tiny city.

Murtagh dismounted, hobbled Tornac, and walked silently toward the few houses whose candles were still burning. It wasn't hard to sneak past the guards and into the dirt streets of Altair. He peered into several windows; troubled at how he was to determine which was Moira's. He looked into the houses that bore candles, and just when he thought he would have to give up, he caught sight of her.

His heart leapt and pounded at the sight of her. She sat on a rickety bed, clad in a simple nightgown, knitting some kind of clothing and singing softly to herself. Her voice was incredibly serene, and at the sound of it, Murtagh shivered again. He approached her open window, and hesitated.

"_Moira,_" he called in a whisper, and she jumped. She looked around before spotting him at the window.

"_Murtagh?_" she gasped, and approached the window. "What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?"

"I… I had to see you again," he said, the statement sounding somewhat juvenile.

Moira stared in amazement before beckoning to him. "Come inside, the guards will see you."

He grabbed the window frame and easily hoisted himself inside as she backed away to give him room. "I'm sorry I came at such a late hour, but the King would notice my absence during the day."

"It's fine," she replied, setting her cloth and knitting needles on her bedside table. "Where's Thorn?" she asked, peering out the window.

"Oh, he stayed in Uru'baen. I felt that if he came, the King would notice. I came on my stallion," he said, looking around at her small room.

It was small, yes, but it felt very cozy. Many candles burned, lighting the room with dull light, and warming it. There was the bed on one wall, and a clothing chest on the other, which was neatly organized as it sat open. His eyes went back to Moira, and they simply stared at each other for a second until she giggled nervously and broke his gaze.

"You live here with your family?" he asked, breaking the icy silence.

"No, actually," she replied, and he raised a questioning eyebrow. "This home belongs to my brother. I stay here with him. It actually belonged to my…" she paused, her voice catching. "My fiancé."

Murtagh was speechless. She hadn't bore a ring when they'd met, so the thought had never occurred to him.

Obviously noticing his astonished face, she quickly went on. "He was recruited for Galbatorix's army. He left two weeks before we were to be married," she paused, seeming to battle some internal conflict. "That was a year ago this winter."

Murtagh stared at her for a moment, comprehending what she'd said.

"Wow, I'm… I'm sorry," he said. "Is he here? Your brother, that is," he said kindly.

"No. Thanks to your warning I was able to get here just before the soldiers and warn him. He fled north; he should be back before the week is out," she said, staring at the ground and fiddling with her fingers.

"Did you love him? Your fiancé?" he said, and immediately mentally chastised himself for being so blunt.

Moira looked up at him, but didn't seem hurt by the question. "I don't know. It's hard to be in love when you don't know what love is. I cared for him, yes. I wanted to marry him, yes. But did I love him? It's hard to say. The match was perfect. We would have made a lovely husband and wife. He would farm the land, I would knit our clothing and weave rugs to sell. We would have been very prosperous. But he was a calm, collected man. I've always been a free spirit. When I was five, I stole my mother's horse and went galloping across the plains near Dras-Leona.

"So did I love him? Not like I love my mother, my father, my brother. But I suppose I did care for him to an extent. Again, I don't know what love is. I always fantasized when I was a girl that when I met my love, I would know it. I would _feel_ it. I didn't, with him. But I suppose my thoughts about love were just a childish girl's fantasy, right?"

"No, no not at all. It isn't childish to wish for a simpler world. I myself do it many times. But perhaps you were right, and he just wasn't the right match. Perchance, you may have been happy to an extent and prosperous, but maybe he wasn't the one," Murtagh replied, awed by her deep reflection of the world.

"Maybe," she replied, looking deep into Murtagh's eyes with a confused and wondrous air. They stared for a moment until Moira cleared her throat and looked away sheepishly.

"So," she said, pushing her obviously recently brushed hair behind her ear. "How are those scars on your chest?"

"Oh, getting better," he said, looking at the floor.

"They're whip marks, aren't they?" she replied, her brow furrowed in pity.

"Um," he began, biting his lip, "yes."

Moira sighed in compassion, and stepped forward. She laid a hand gently on his chest, her fingers running along the cloth, and the touch somehow remained innocent.

"The King did it?" she asked, looking back into his eyes.

"Not him personally, but on his orders," he replied, his voice low.

"Let me see," she said, and without waiting for a reply, she hooked her fingers under the shirt and pulled it up and off.

Murtagh felt highly uncomfortable letting her do that, but when her hands found their way back to his skin, all doubts vanished. She traced the scars with her fingertips, very gently, scrutinizing each one. He watched her, captivated by her enthusiasm.

"What did you do? To merit these?" she asked, still touching.

"I," his voice cracked, and he had to stabilize it before continuing. "I failed a mission he sent me on… for the second time."

Moira seemed to notice his break in speech, and looked back up at him.

"I'm sorry you had to endure this," she said truthfully, but her eyes wandered from his eyes to his lips; a movement that was slow and deliberate.

Murtagh watched her cautiously, taking a deep breath to break the tension that was suddenly welling up in his throat.

She leaned forward slightly, inclining herself on the balls of her feet, moving closer to him. She watched him like she would a rabid dog, as if expecting him to do something violent. But instead of stopping, she leaned all the way in.

She pressed her lips gently against his, testing him to see if he would allow it. Everything in his rational mind was screaming "this is a bad idea," but he couldn't stop her… wouldn't. He began to kiss her back slowly and cautiously, afraid that the consequences of this would manifest immediately.

She deepened the kiss by pressing her lips harder against his and biting at his lower lip, and his brain spun as if he'd just been racked over the head with the broad side of a blade. She laid her hands on him then; one tracing up his chest, the other curving behind his neck and holding him firmly but soothingly.

Murtagh's better sensibilities kicked in then, and he grabbed her upper arms, completely calmly, and pushed her away.

"I… I can't do this. If we go any farther, I doubt I have the strength to keep myself from doing something… ungentlemanly," he sighed, his brain yearning to feel that warm, breathless feeling again.

He expected Moira to be disappointed, but she wasn't giving up just yet.

"Why did you come here, tonight, Murtagh?" she asked, tilting her head like a puppy and batting her emerald eyes at him.

"I… I don't know. Can't I just say that I wanted to see you again, and let that be enough?" he said, still holding her. He hadn't realized his thumbs were brushing her arms, up and down, feeling her smooth, tanned skin.

"I suppose," she said, tearing her eyes from his and looking to the side. "But Murtagh…"

She looked back at him, her huge eyes resembling the moon on a cloudless night. Her fiery hair fell around her face, perfectly setting her into a portrait of raw beauty.

"Sometimes not taking a risk is the biggest risk of all," she said, bringing her face closer to his again.

He watched her, watched the fire blazing behind her eyes. It seemed to mimic flawlessly the rebellion that stood out in her hair, her mannerisms. He sighed.

"Oh, to hell with it," he stated simply, and his hands darted to either side of her face, cupping her sculpted jawbones, and he pulled her into a deep, drawn out kiss he was unaware he could produce.

She returned his efforts back on him tenfold, seeming almost desperate as she traced her hands rapidly all over his body, feeling each and every flaw in the skin, each curve of muscle.

He did the same, letting his hands drop from her face to her sides, running them along her slender, chiseled frame.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, letting her kisses wander from his lips, to his jawbone, to his neck. She leaned against him, her body heat making him feel feverish. She pulled one leg up and wrapped it around his thigh, and something primal took over him.

He bit at her neck, playfully yet still sensually, and grabbed her thighs, lifting her up and enabling her to wrap both legs around him, still kissing and caressing his hot skin. He smiled to himself as he took a long stride forward and leaned down a bit so that she got top-heavy.

She fell with a slight squeal onto the bed behind her, bouncing slightly as he crawled on top of her like a prowling wildcat. He smiled, not a genuine or natural one, but a more of a sadistic, almost evil grin. And she responded.

Her hand found its way to his pants and fumbled with them as he clumsily and almost desperately pulled her dress up over her thighs.

She wrapped her free hand around his neck and pulled him close, kissing him again, but this time with more ferocity.

_This is a _very_ bad idea,_ his conscience was ringing in the back of his skull. He shunned it aside along with all his troubles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

Murtagh and Moira lay on the bed, naked and trembling in the aftermath of what they had just done. But neither seemed scared or ill at ease; rather, they were calm, collected, and content. Murtagh, because he had spent his entire life alone, and every touch that came upon him was harsh or ill intended. Now, someone had changed that. He didn't understand Moira's reasoning for throwing caution to the winds, he was only glad that she did.

He supposed it might have been pent-up anger or grief from the loss of her fiancé, or perhaps she was just lonely. Either way, she had acted as though she would never live another minute after the moments they had just spent together. And that was exactly the way he lived his life.

He looked down at her as he lay, propped on one elbow, tracing shapes on her bare back as she lay on her stomach before him. Her head was turned so that she may look at him, but was, at the moment, resting with her eyes gently closed.

"Do you think it a mistake?" he asked softly, tracing the shape of his own gedwëy ignasia over her spine.

"Not at all," she replied sincerely, sighing in her relaxation.

"Why not?" he asked, furrowing his brow. He would have thought any woman would be terrified of doing… what she had just done. Especially out of wedlock.

"I don't honestly know," she said, finally opening her eyes and staring at him, somehow innocently. "It's just… something in here," she tapped her temple, "telling me it wasn't."

"Hm… that's odd," he said, smiling a crooked smile.

"Why?" she asked, huddling into the bed for warmth.

"I had the same reaction," he said, curling his knuckles into a gently formed fist and running them up and down her back.

She smiled, and flipped over to allow herself to lean toward him and plant a sweet kiss on his lips. He kissed her back, almost completely uninhibited now. He had hardly anything left to hold back from her.

He was about to kiss her far more passionately when a raw chill of fear tore through his spine in an almost numbing reaction to the utterance of his true name. It was echoing around inside his skull, whispering to him in a tone that sent his inner core into a frenzy of near panic. He knew that only he could hear it; knew this by the look on Moira's face upon seeing that he had gone rigid with alarm, seeing his terrified expression.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she gasped, running a gentle hand over the strands of hair that fell into his face.

He stammered for words. "The… the king. He has realized my absence. I must go," he said, his hands trembling as he shoved off of the bed and picked up his leather pants from the floor.

"Must you?" she asked, sitting up and pulling the sheets over herself to keep warm.

He nodded; his whole body starting to shake as violent visions of Galbatorix's next plan for punishment ran through his mind.

Moira sighed, obviously noticing how unsettled the thought of returning to Uru'baen made him.

He dressed quickly, his hands shaking so severely that he could barely buckle his belt. He cursed to himself for his clumsiness as he tried again to clasp the buckle.

"Shhh," Moira cooed, suddenly on her feet in front of him. He jumped, not having realized her movement.

"It's okay," she whispered, cupping the left side of his face in her right hand, looking at him with the utmost sympathy in her eyes. He didn't let himself relax much, but just enough as to savor the touch. "Let me help," she continued.

She buckled his belt for him, then calmly helped him pull his shirt on.

"I'm sorry you will probably endure more lashings upon my behalf," she said, watching him as he backed away and slid his boots on.

He looked up at her after putting on both boots, and paused. "Ah, but I would endure a thousand more for the mere minutes I escape with you."

She smiled, and rocked forward to hold him in her arms, one last brief time, before watching him turn and flee from the house.

"Goodbye," he whispered as he fled toward the forest, where Tornac was still hobbled.

"Goodbye, dragon rider," she whispered back, the candle that was burning behind her making all that was visible a beautiful silhouette in the open window.

He tore the hobbles from Tornac's legs as fast as he could, spooking the stallion as he did so. This time, however, he didn't bother to quiet the animal as he usually did. He hastily threw a leg over the saddle, and heeled Tornac onward before his feet were even in the stirrups.

Tornac raced into the darkness, trusting only Murtagh's guidance to keep him from colliding with anything. Murtagh threw the reins forward, letting Tornac have them freely.

All that ran through his troubled mind was his actions. He had known the consequences, known that no good could come of behaving thusly, but he had thrown away reason. Why? Why had he done that? He was always a rational man, but now… he felt almost disoriented. And the fact that now the king knew of his indiscretion was constantly burning away at his spine, making his entire body tingle with fear.

Galbatorix was the only man who had constant, easy access to Murtagh's mind, his every private thought. He would be scrutinized harshly, possibly severely. And to be punished again… why? What was so wrong with craving companionship? Not in the… literal sense, as he had just characterized, but just friendship. Was he supposed to live his whole life with no one but Thorn? The king might be capable of living such a hollow, meaningless existence, but Murtagh was not content in doing so.

No, if living with humanity meant living with flaws, so be it. He just didn't know if he had the inner strength to explain it as such to the most likely furious king.

So he resorted to clearing his mind completely. It was always more difficult for the mind to be invaded when it was strongest, and his was always strongest when it wasn't troubled. He just followed Tornac's movements, breathing deeply and trying to calm himself. No good would come from panicking.

Again, the trip back felt half as long as the trip to Altair, almost exclusively because he _wanted_ it to take years. He didn't know what would befall him upon confronting Galbatorix, and didn't have the slightest urge to find out. But alas, when his true name was called, he was under oath to report to Galbatorix.

So, upon his return, he stabled Tornac, collected himself, and began walking to the king's private quarters.

_Thorn?_ he called with his mind as he ascended a hall of black stairs.

_Murtagh!_ Thorn gasped back, obviously relieved that his partner had returned.

_What happened? It is still only before daybreak, why did he notice I was amiss? _Murtagh asked, winding his way through the dark hallways.

_I truly do not know,_ Thorn said, his reply much more calm now that he was sure Murtagh was safe… for the moment. _He came to our quarters for who knows what reason, and I was forced to tell the truth under order._

Order of his true name. Murtagh lamented that Galbatorix knew his true name, but the fact that he knew Thorn's made him see red. Thorn should have been just an innocent bystander, but instead was caught in the same slimy web as his rider.

_What did you say? _Murtagh asked, nearing Galbatorix's room.

_I told him you met someone a fortnight or so back, and you had gone to see her,_ Thorn replied.

_You had to tell him it was a woman? _Murtagh moaned, knowing he would receive extra chastising for his company being a woman. The strong had no time for friends or women, as Galbatorix always said. And, upon Murtagh's mention of Morzan and Selena, the king's answer was always "Do you see them with us today? Bah! The strong have no ties. The strong survive."

_I am sorry. I initially told him it was just an acquaintance, but he asked if it was a woman, and I had to say yes,_ Thorn replied apologetically.

_It is alright, my friend,_ Murtagh said, straightening his shirt as he stood before Galbatorix's door. _You did what you could._

With that, he rapped his knuckles on the iron door, and waited fearfully for the icy reply.

"Enter," came the chilly voice, just as cold and confident as ever.

Murtagh took his time pushing the door open and entering the room. He did his best to keep his hands from trembling as he turned to face his fate.

Galbatorix was seated in a high sitting chair, one that almost exactly resembled his throne in his main day chambers. He was reclining against the back lazily, sipping wine, of all things. In the early morning.

But then again, Murtagh had been to the king's private chamber before, and the stone slab that was supposed to be a bed was always immaculately made; never a blemish or wrinkle in the sheets. It was to the point now that Murtagh wondered if the king even slept at all, or if he had found magical means of avoiding doing so. The king had found so many shortcuts with magic that Murtagh sometimes doubted if Galbatorix was even human anymore.

"Evening, Murtagh," the king said coldly, staring down into his glass of red wine as if it were more interesting than the young man standing before him, a chill kissing his spine.

Murtagh did not reply, but rather stood in an at ease stance, legs spread shoulder-width apart, hands crossed behind his back. He inclined his head, setting his features into a portrait of noncompliance.

Galbatorix looked at him when no reply was heard, then looked back down at his wine, spinning the glass in his hands and watching the pattern of ripples.

"Where did you spirit off to at such a late hour?" Galbatorix asked, but it was not for informative needs. He had already questioned Thorn; he already knew. He simply wanted the pleasure of forcing Murtagh to admit.

"Out," Murtagh replied defiantly.

Galbatorix's features hardened into anger.

"Do not insult me with your vagueness, Murtagh, lest you forget," he said, standing to his full, daunting height and stepping toward Murtagh with a dominant aura. "You are _mine_," he finished, inches from Murtagh's face.

Murtagh did his best to hold the king's icy glare. "I apologize, my king. I was unaware you needed to know of my whereabouts at every waking instant."

The moment he said it, he knew he shouldn't have.

Galbatorix's eyes thinned to a violent, enraged glower. "Hold your insubordinate tongue, Murtagh. You do not go anywhere without my order or approval. You do not speak to me or any of my men unless told to do so. You will not eat, sleep, or _breathe _without my command, am I understood?"

"Inescapably," Murtagh replied just as coldly.

Galbatorix was obviously aware that he was being mocked. Murtagh waited to see if he acted on that realization.

Without warning, Galbatorix violently invaded Murtagh's mind, causing the latter to cry out in pain and stagger back from the king. Galbatorix sifted through each second of Murtagh's night, and Murtagh even thought he could hear the king laughing mirthlessly at several of his more cherished moments. When he had thoroughly examined each second with exhausting precision, he released his hold on Murtagh and stepped back, sneering.

Murtagh reposed himself, standing up straight and shaking off the mental assault. He went back to his at-ease stance, but this time was wary of what the king might do now, having seen exactly what Murtagh had done.

The king began to laugh under his breath, turning away from Murtagh and pacing as he brooded over the thoughts he had just gleaned.

"How incredibly like your father you are, Murtagh," Galbatorix said, stepping over to his chair and picking up glass of wine to sip at it. "And yet, how different."

Murtagh waited and watched as the king set his glass back down and faced him once more.

"Morzan was unable to hide Selena from me, just as you are unable to keep hidden this… ah, what was her name? I believe you said it in one of those touching memories…"

Murtagh bit his tongue to keep from screaming at the king in rage.

"Moira," Galbatorix murmured, and the way he said it butchered the beauty that lie beneath each letter. "But you see Murtagh, and this is the key difference between you and your father, Morzan did not truly care for her. I see that you _do,_" Galbatorix finished, giggling at the thought of Murtagh actually caring for someone, as if it were obscene.

"And there are other differences between the two of you as well," Galbatorix went on, pacing before his chair and feigning deep thought.

"You see, Morzan was a loyal follower of mine to the very end, whereas you are a constant bother and quite ironically, a thorn in my side. Help me understand something," he said, stepping right up to Murtagh, his icy breath brushing Murtagh's face.

"Why must you be such a constant disappointment?" the king continued, his eyes narrowing.

Murtagh's anger broke through his clenched teeth.

"Oh, perhaps it is because I am a slave to a cause which I constantly and quite obviously advocate _against_," he spat back.

Again, he chastised himself for speaking.

The king did not show any outward signs of being stunned by Murtagh's retort, but Murtagh knew he was. The king's eyes narrowed more, and he stepped back and began circling Murtagh with a slightly predator-esque nature. Murtagh itched to spin around every time the king was directly behind him, but fought that weakness.

"I am going to be very clear now, Murtagh," Galbatorix said, his voice low and incredibly threatening.

Galbatorix, now directly behind Murtagh again, suddenly grabbed a handful of Murtagh's hair and kicked his knees out, sending him to painfully to rest on them. The king yanked his head back, and knelt behind him so he could whisper coldly right into Murtagh's ear. When he spoke, it was in the ancient language so that it was taken as an order.

"You will return to your chambers now. You will not leave them until instructed to do so. And you will _never_, under _any_ circumstances, speak to me as you have to tonight. Do I make myself clear?" he hissed.

Murtagh gulped down his anger, clenched his fists at his sides, and replied, in the ancient language, "yes, my lord."

The king threw Murtagh forward, and he caught himself on all fours. The king walked over to his throne, waving a hand of dismissal at Murtagh.

Murtagh did not waste another second. He angrily pushed himself to his feet and stormed out of the king's quarters and back to his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

Murtagh awoke slowly the next morning, the bright light of morning flooding in from the open door leading out to the deck. The drapes were blowing gently inward, falling simply from one easy breeze to the next in a rhythmic, wave-like pattern. Thorn was lying on the floor in his usual spot, facing the open door and sniffing at the fresh air.

Murtagh stretched, wondering how long he'd been sleeping. He threw his legs over the stone slab that was supposedly his bed, threw back the single sheet, and walked over to the balcony, lying a hand on Thorn's shoulder and patting him in greeting.

_Morning,_ he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

_More like afternoon,_ Thorn replied, licking his lips and looking content.

_Have I really been sleeping all day?_ he asked, stretching his arms and feeling the warm breeze against his bare chest.

_Well… you were out all night,_ Thorn replied, looking at him with an amused stare.

_Yeah… that… I didn't expect to be gone long enough for the king to notice. I… got caught up,_ Murtagh said, and visions of his night with Moira crept through his memory.

Thorn snorted in surprise at the memory, smiling in a show of white fangs.

_Well, well, well. You certainly _did_ get caught up, didn't you? _Thorn asked suggestively.

_Shut up,_ Murtagh replied sarcastically, punching Thorn's shoulder playfully.

Thorn shook his head, looking back out of the balcony and licking the breeze that rolled in.

_Dara stopped in earlier. Said that she had breakfast for you in the kitchen when you woke,_ Thorn said.

_Ah, good. I'm starved. You going out hunting? _Murtagh asked, finding a cloth tunic and throwing it on.

_Probably, while you eat breakfast. I would hate to be gone too long,_ Thorn said, obviously mocking the king's overreaction to Murtagh's late night.

_Yes, that would be a nightmare,_ Murtagh joked, smiling as Thorn stood and walked out onto the balcony.

He turned and gave Murtagh a warm look before spinning and leaping playfully out into the afternoon air. Murtagh smiled as he headed out of his room and down the dark, gloomy hallways to the kitchen.

Dara was there, scrubbing the fireplace with a brush and sweeping the soot into a bucket. Her mocha hair fell in spirals around her face, and she was humming to herself as she worked, so she didn't notice Murtagh when he entered.

He cleared his throat, bouncing on his heels slightly. He smiled when she turned, and she returned the gesture as she threw the fireplace brush into the bucket and straightened.

"Hello, Murtagh," she said, wiping the soot from her hands in a pail of water.

"Afternoon," he replied, walking forward and sitting at a small stone countertop in the middle of the room, used when the servants ate. Murtagh never felt the need for propriety, it only made him feel like Galbatorix. And similar to his king was the last trait he wished to have.

"Anything in particular you would like?" Dara asked, pulling a few cooking ingredients from wooden cabinets.

"Food. I'm not picky," he replied, smiling as she laughed at him.

She began to throw a few things together, and he merely watched in silent contemplation. He wondered how long it had been since she had seen her husband, her son. He wondered if the thought of getting them back was still fresh in her mind, or if she was merely clinging to hope. The latter was more likely.

"I assume the king found out?" she asked, not looking up from her cooking.

"That I left? Yes," he replied, rubbing his hands together guiltily.

"Well he didn't hear it from me," she said, chancing a wry grin at him.

"Yes, I thank you for your discretion," Murtagh said, remembering that she had seen him in the stables. "Why were you in the stables at that hour anyway?" he asked.

She sighed as she rested a loaf of bread near the fire she had just set. It began to toast and brown immediately.

"I go when I can't sleep. I enjoy the presence of horses over humans," she replied, cracking a few eggs on a heated stone over the fire behind her. "They are more primitive, and in that, almost more intelligent. They fear first, question later. Defend themselves, then pause to find out what from. They are like me, in many ways. I have been in this situation so long that I hardly bother to wonder why anymore, I just do what I am told. I think on it later; ponder why I must be stuck in this position. But I do not question authority anymore. No good ever comes of it. Just pain," she said, and Murtagh couldn't agree more.

"Yes, I find myself doing the same very often," he replied, smiling and thanking her as she set down two eggs before him, then sliced the loaf of bread and handed him two pieces.

"Thank you," he said, and she smiled halfheartedly. "I had thought everyone in this God forsaken citadel, this dark and soulless city was as cold and lifeless as its king. I now see that there is one who is not."

"Two," she corrected as she returned to cleaning around the fire. "Lest you forget to count yourself."

He huffed. "Debatable," he said, and dug in to his meal.

"Why do you say that? You are indeed as good at heart as I," Dara replied, looking back at him.

He paused his eating, and looked at her. "When your soul is enslaved and used by another for unscrupulous means, how are you supposed to make it noble? How is that soul not as tainted and dirty as one of his willing assassins?"

"Because it _is_ a slave. Because it desires not what it performs, but what it _wants_ to perform. Your soul is a pure as your intentions," she said.

He sighed. "Again I say… debatable." And with that, the discussion was over. He ate his meal in silence, and Dara continued with her duties.

Murtagh thanked her again, and returned to his room to find Thorn waiting, looking pleased and satiated.

_Have a nice meal, my friend?_ Murtagh asked, smiling at the crimson dragon.

_Why yes, I did. I found a nice spot of game and had quite a few. I must say, I indulged myself,_ Thorn gloated.

_That's alright, you deserve to indulge every now and then,_ Murtagh said, stepping out onto the massive balcony and looking up at the violet sky. It had turned darker with oncoming storm clouds, but he still reveled in its beauty.

_You certainly did,_ Thorn mocked. Murtagh knew he was speaking of the previous night with Moira.

Murtagh turned around, one eyebrow raised in scorn.

_Excuse me?_ he asked, making sure to sound like a scolding parent.

_Oh, nothing. Nothing at all,_ Thorn said, smiling and acting very innocent.

_You know, I could…_

Murtagh's statement was cut off by that ever-familiar chill that was the accompaniment to his true name. Thorn shivered as well, and Murtagh knew all too well what that meant.

The king had a job for them.

Murtagh sighed and turned to exit into the hallway, and Thorn hurriedly stood and leapt off the balcony to meet Murtagh on the other side of the building. Murtagh was disheartened every time he had to walk through the castle without Thorn. He felt like a bow without its arrow.

But nevertheless, within minutes they were reunited in Galbatorix's main chamber, where the king sat perched in his throne, chin inclined in his royal demeanor.

Both Murtagh and Thorn bowed obediently upon entering and waited for their instructions. The king eyed Murtagh a little longer than Murtagh was comfortable with before speaking.

"I have recently become aware of a village harboring rebels," Galbatorix stated calmly. "I want the two of you to raze this city."

Murtagh snapped his head up and looked at the king questioningly. "But, my king. What about innocents? What about weeding out the rebels and releasing the others?"

"They sheltered rebels, they are all criminals. None deserves fairer treatment than the criminals they harbor," the king said nastily, a hint of a smile hiding in the corners of his lips.

Murtagh sighed, remembering what Dara had said about questioning authority. About how she didn't even bother anymore. He bowed his head in compliance.

"Yes, my king. Where is it?" he asked, trying to distance himself from the situation.

"Just due Northwest of here. It will only take an hour or so to reach it. It is called Altair," the king said, and Murtagh's heart leapt into his throat. He felt Thorn's reaction as well; a response of pure sickened surprise.

_He knows_, Murtagh said to Thorn. _He knows that's where Moira lives. He wants me to destroy my own weakness personally. There are no rebels there! He just wants to punish me!_

It seemed this was the king's plan exactly, for he was watching Murtagh with scrutiny to bask in the torment he had inflicted on him. Murtagh did his best to devoid him of any sort of contentment.

"Yes, King," Murtagh said, and stood to walk out.

"And Murtagh," Galbatorix said, causing Murtagh to pause before the door and listen.

When the king spoke, it was an order in the ancient language. "This is an order. You will destroy that village, top to bottom. _No survivors!_"

Murtagh couldn't hide the tremble that ran the length of his body.

He nodded feebly, then continued on his way out the door, Thorn on his heels.

"Oh, Murtagh!" Galbatorix called, and Murtagh paused outside of the room. There was something almost… chipper about the way he had said it. "I've already sent a division of troops to make sure the job gets done. That's not a problem, is it?" the king sneered.

Murtagh looked at Thorn, his features terrified. _Meet me in our room! We must warn them!_

With that, Murtagh took off down hallways and passages, running into several of the king's patrols along the way. He wondered how long ago the king had sent his soldiers, and if he and Thorn even had a chance. Thorn was fast, much faster than horses, but it all depended on how long ago the soldiers had been sent.

He skidded into the room, just in time to see Thorn entering through the balcony, the drapes on either side of the door flying into the room violently in reaction the downdraft of the dragon's wings. Thorn ducked his head, folding his wings so he wouldn't rake them across the massive doorway.

Murtagh bustled about, throwing on his belt with Zar'roc and synching it around his waist.

_What do you plan to do?_ Thorn asked. _You heard the king's orders, raze the village. No survivors._

_I don't know,_ Murtagh replied, his hands shaking as he grabbed his saddle from its rack and bustled over to Thorn, where the dragon lay down so he could reach. _But I must do something. Perhaps if I warn her and she leaves the city… God, I don't know. _

Thorn stood so Murtagh could synch the girth. Murtagh hurried over to his weapon rack and grabbed a dagger and his crossbow. One could never have too many weapons.

_Do you love her?_ Thorn asked suddenly, surprising Murtagh thoroughly.

Murtagh paused, taken aback. _Of course I don't _love_ her. I've only just met her,_ he said in reply.

_Who said love had anything to do with time?_ Thorn asked, watching Murtagh return to attaching his weapons to the saddle. _The moment I was born I loved you with all my soul. _

Murtagh sighed. _That's different,_ he said. _You spent hundreds of years waiting to hatch for the partner of your life. _

_So? You search for a partner of your life, do you not? I am a dragon, therefore I am unfamiliar with the marriage customs of humans, and correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that the whole point? _Thorn said, tilting his head.

Murtagh sighed, now ready to depart. _I suppose you may be right, but now is no time to discuss it. Such topics require deep thought, and deep thought requires time. A luxury we are devoid of at the present time. So I will say this; I will not allow myself to love anyone but you. Survival is much easier that way. And speaking of survival, that is something Moira will not be doing much of if we do not leave _now_!_

With that, he shoved his left foot in the stirrup, swung his right over Thorn's back, and prepared for the flight.

Thorn shook his head and ran forward, keeping his head low and wings tucked as he exited the doorway onto the balcony and leapt off, his wings snapping out in a show of red as he rocketed to the Northwest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7**

Thorn was utilizing the training on speed flight he had learned from Shruikan very well. He tucked his legs, straightened his body to the accuracy of a pin, and pulled his wings in so that he sliced through the air like a hot knife. Murtagh held fast to the saddle, squinting against the whipping wind that slashed his hair across his face.

With Thorn flying as fast as he could most of the time, it only took half an hour to traverse the distance. Before Murtagh could see the city, he decided to find out if the soldiers had arrived yet.

"Skulblaka sven," he spoke, and his vision intensified tenfold. He could see the village easily, see every house down to minute detail. Thorn shifted his line of sight to include the area surrounding the village, and sure enough, about two miles from the village was the king's infantry nearing at a gallop.

Murtagh cursed under his breath and thought of anything he could do.

_Thorn, warn them! _he said hastily.

Without wasting a moment, Thorn loosed a massive, violent roar, the sound of it ringing through Murtagh's mind. Through Thorn's vision, Murtagh could see people immediately exit their homes, looking to the skies for the location of the disruption.

Thorn dove toward the village, and Murtagh released the spell as they neared the ground. Murtagh leaned back in preparation for the violent landing. Thorn snapped out his wings at the last second, his body going upright with the force of it. He landed incredibly gently on his hind legs before dropping to all fours and peering around at the many frightened villagers as he folded his wings.

Murtagh quickly leapt off of Thorn and stalked toward the villagers, who backed away out of fright.

"Moira? Anyone know where I can find Moira?" he called, searching each face for a hint of knowledge.

"Here! I'm here, Murtagh!" came her voice, and he spun around to see her approaching through a crowd of frightened people, her face the only shining beacon of welcoming, of friendship.

"Oh, thank what Gods there may be," he sighed, cupping her face when she advanced, and simply studying her. She smiled and rested her hands on his sides. It was obvious the villagers were dumbfounded, but none dared speak.

"You're okay," Moira was sighing. "Oh, I thought for sure the king would torture you again. I couldn't bare the thought of the blame resting on me…"

"But he has, Moira. He has," Murtagh spoke quickly, out of fear for the approaching infantry. "He has sent me to destroy my own weakness."

"Me?" Moira asked, somewhat startled that she was considered a weakness for him.

"Not just you, the whole village," Murtagh said. Gasps were heard all around him from the terrified villagers. "He has sent a whole division of his infantry to attack. He will raze the whole village!"

Angry outcries were loosed from the crowd, many of them verbally attacking Murtagh. But the two of them ignored them and concentrated wholly on each other.

"I want you to leave, Moira. Leave the village, take your immediate family, any women and children," Murtagh said hastily.

She finally seemed to realize the depth of the situation. "But… these people…" she said, gesturing to the villagers all around them. "These people are my family too, I can't just leave them."

"I'm sorry, there is nothing I can do," Murtagh grimaced. "I cannot return to the king without having fulfilled his order. He ordered us to attack the city and leave no survivors. The way I see it, if you are not in the village, you are not my concern."

"So I am to just leave my friends and neighbors to be slaughtered?" she gasped, taking a step back from him.

Murtagh had no answer. Honestly, he could care less about any of them. He just had to get Moira away from the threat. He didn't know why, but he felt that he was the reason she was dragged into this mess, and he had to rectify it.

"You!" he heard from the crowd, but passed it off as another angry outburst from the villagers. However, it quickly became more than that as he saw a man, entering at a run from the side of his field of vision, hand raised as if to hit Murtagh.

Murtagh turned and said simply, "letta," but it was too late for Thorn. The crimson dragon stepped forward, opening his massive jaw and roared viciously at the now paralyzed and terrified man. The entire village took two substantial steps back and fell silent in its fear of the great dragon.

"It is alright Thorn," Murtagh said, holding up a hand to his dragon to calm him. The spell was firmly holding the attacker in place.

"It was you! You brought this violence upon us!" the man yelled, still frozen in place with his hand raised to strike. "It's you she's been talking about!"

"Carrogan, don't," Murtagh heard from behind him, and he turned to see Moira nervously spinning her hair in her fingers.

"You know this man?" Murtagh asked.

"Yes," she replied, looking down at the ground. "This is my… brother. The one who fled those days ago when the soldiers came recruiting."

"Ah," Murtagh said, turning back to face the man… Carrogan had been his name.

"Well let me assure you of one thing," Murtagh said, stepping closer to the man. "It _is_ I who have brought this misery upon you. But I come now to warn you of the impending threat. Their orders are to destroy the village and leave no survivors. I am offering you now this chance; take your elderly, your women, and your children, and flee. The king's soldiers will show you no such mercy."

"But what are our charges!" a man in the crowd called.

"Yes, we are a peaceful village, always paying taxes, never calling for any question of loyalty from the king!" Carrogan said, his anger showing in his face.

"It is because…" Murtagh began, looking back at Moira as he paused. "He says it is because you harbor rebels, but this is a spurious charge. It is because I…" he couldn't bring himself to say it. Nor could he even find the right words to explain. He could not tell them he was involved with Moira, for surely they would turn their anger on her.

But Carrogan seemed to have figured it out. "You bastard!" he yelled, and Murtagh felt the strain on the magic as Carrogan fought to free himself of the spell. He didn't even manage a flinch.

"You dishonor my sister!" Carrogan screamed, his eyes turning red in his fit of rage.

"That has yet to be seen," Murtagh said hastily. "But if you would like to spend your minimal time arguing with me about whom your sister freely chooses to spend time with, be my guest. But each minute you spend speaking with me is one minute the king's infantry draws nearer. I _beg_ you, all of you. Take your elderly, your women, your children. Flee, while you still can! I alone am offering you this chance!"

The villagers stirred, some already gathering their children in preparation to flee.

Carrogan paused, considering the truth in Murtagh's words.

Murtagh straightened. "I am going to release you now. You may strike me if you wish, for I deserve most punishments I receive."

Thorn grunted in protest, but Murtagh ignored him. He released the magic, causing Carrogan to stumble a bit on his uneven weight.

As Murtagh had expected, the first thing Carrogan did was throw a heavy punch to Murtagh's face. Murtagh did not stumble, but merely moved with the motion to ease the impact. Thorn growled, but did not act.

"That is for dishonoring my sister, and bringing bedlam to this village," Carrogan said, spitting at Murtagh's feet.

Murtagh sighed deeply, opening and closing his jaw to check for any sign of damage. Carrogan did something surprising then, and held out his hand to shake Murtagh's.

"And this is for warning me when the king was recruiting, and for warning us now," he said, in a much gentler tone.

Murtagh rubbed his sore jaw, straightening as he studied Carrogan's face. He should have been surprised by this, but he just wasn't. Being one himself, he knew how men worked. They solved their problems with brief violence, then turned to the pressing issues with intelligence and sometimes grace. Carrogan seemed congenial, so Murtagh took his hand and shook it wholeheartedly.

"I will not run," Carrogan said simply as he watched many of the villagers packing their cherished belongings with their women and children. "I will stay and defend my village. Who will join me?" Carrogan called.

Almost every man capable of fighting, and even some who were not, began to gather behind Carrogan.

"Carrogan, please don't do this," Moira begged, stepping forward from behind Murtagh.

"Moira, I must. It is my duty as man of our house to defend my family and my property. If I had committed any crimes, I would not be doing so. But as it is, we are all innocent. Therefore I will fight this indecency with all that is good in me."

Moira made to protest again. "Moira, I'll not hear it," Carrogan said firmly. "I want you to take some provisions, gather the citizens that will be fleeing, and lead them west to safety. They will find shelter in Dras-Leona. Do not return until you are positive it is safe to do so."

"Carrogan, I can't just leave you," Moira begged, tears welling in her eyes. Murtagh died to just hold her and comfort her, but he had no such luxury.

"You must. You remember when Caldwell was recruited?" Carrogan said, and Murtagh assumed that was Moira's ex-fiancé.

Moira nodded solemnly. "The family came together to help you. The whole village came together to support you. Now, you must help the village. Help them by taking those who cannot defend themselves and giving them the means hide themselves from harm. These willing men will defend their homes and their honor."

Moira obviously saw no way around Carrogan's logic, and resulted to throwing herself at him and holding him tightly. "I love you, brother," she wept, gripping his tunic tightly. "You defend yourself before you defend a home, you hear me?"

Carrogan stroked her hair before affectionately pushing her away. "Go now, please. Time is short."

Moira nodded, and turned to Murtagh. "I don't know how to thank you. You have given us the gift of survival this day."

Murtagh sighed, knowing full well that he, along with the king's soldiers, would be taking something very precious from her this day. "Yes, but it is I who brought the threat."

"No, no, you merely searched for a… how did you put it… a simpler world," Moira said, stroking his hair warmly. "You simply found that there is no such thing."

Murtagh's heart pained for the dirty deed he would have to commit after she left. He wished this moment would last, and his duties to his king would never have to be fulfilled. But alas, the villagers were antsy and chomping at the bit to flee the village.

"I must go now," she said, looking at him as though it would be the last time. And to Murtagh's knowledge, it might be. "Please show mercy to my brother, my neighbors."

He knew he could not. He had vowed to Galbatorix. _Leave no survivors._ But that was what was so heartbreaking. He could not lie to Galbatorix. He could lie to Moira.

"I shall try," he said, his heart paining for her.

She leaned forward then, onto the balls of her feet, and kissed him sweetly, just as she had the first time they had kissed. "Thank you, dragon rider," she said, and with that, she turned to join her fellow villagers in a flight for their lives.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8**

Murtagh sighed as he watched the women, children, and the beautiful Moira unhappily sneaking away from their homes. The men of the village had departed from their spots to adorn themselves with any armor and weapons they could muster. Murtagh could not help the feeling of dread that overtook him. He knew how this battle would go. It would be a slaughter, and Moira would be left with no family whatsoever, and only Murtagh to blame for it.

He looked around at the men of the village, all gathering axes, hammers, swords, daggers, and any other provision they might use for a weapon. Some had even roped together horseshoes as weapons.

He strode over to where Carrogan was lashing a dagger to his hip and mentally preparing himself for battle. Thorn was anxiously on his heels, nervous of when these men might decide Murtagh was the enemy.

"Please know that…" Murtagh paused, thinking on the words. "Know that any death I cause today is under the order of my king, and not what I wish."

Carrogan continued to ready himself, listening, and yet not responding.

"Did you respect her?" Carrogan asked after what seemed like hours of silence. "Did you treat her with dignity, and cherish her?"

Murtagh stared Carrogan in the eyes so he would know no lie could come of him. "Yes. Yes, I did."

Carrogan nodded, standing up straight. He held his chin high in dignity. "Then I have nothing more to say to you," he said, but it was not harsh. It was simply a statement that their formal business with each other was at an end. "We must part now, and fight each other. May the best man win."

Murtagh knew that the best man had nothing to with it. Carrogan, simply by his nobility and class shown today, was by far the better man. But Murtagh knew that the best man would not win. The best man was a cornered rabbit in a city of wolves.

Murtagh nodded to Carrogan and turned to mount Thorn, who nudged him sympathetically.

_One day_, Thorn said solemnly as he walked South, where they would meet the soldiers and begin their advance on the village. _One day, even be it in death, we will be free of this._

Murtagh did not reply, instead he thought back to Moira's sad face as she walked away from her brother, probably clinging to the hope that she would see him again.

Thorn stood at the entrance of the city, waiting as the king's soldiers approached at a gallop and skidded to a halt next to him. There were only about twenty of them, but for a small village like this, it was overkill. Galbatorix simply wanted to wipe them out.

The general in charge halted his horse, which was nervously eyeing Thorn.

"Ah, looks like we'll have an uprising on our hands," the man said, clearing his teeth with his tongue in a show on nonchalance. He watched the men of the village slowly gather before them in a botched line to defend their homes and honor. "Should be fun."

"There is nothing 'fun' about massacring an entire village to satiate a king's desire to exude violence," Murtagh said flatly, looking off into the village and not even meeting eyes with the general. He didn't know if the man knew that this was not a village harboring rebels, and that they had been sent just for personal means of the king's. And frankly, he didn't care.

"Ooo, touchy, touchy," the general sneered. "Do I hear dissent in your voice, dragon rider?"

Murtagh rolled his eyes and looked at the man as if to say, "so what if you do? What're you gonna do, kill me?"

The man merely laughed in return and drew his sword from its sheath. The nineteen men behind him did the same, and the ring of the blades leaving their sheaths sliced through the air. Their horses danced, recognizing that this sound meant battle was near. Murtagh felt Thorn heave a great, disappointed sigh.

"I have been told that your village harbors rebels. What say you to these charges!" the general called to the men.

"We are innocent men, we have performed no such deed," Carrogan called from his position in the middle of the line. In all, there were probably fifteen men, some old, some young, some far too young. But against twenty of the king's highly trained and most likely painless soldiers, they would be futile. That wasn't even including Murtagh and Thorn. It would be a slaughter.

"Then you are lying through your teeth!" the general called back, heaving his sword high in the air. "And you will die for crimes against the Empire, and his majesty, the King!"

Murtagh shivered as the sun hid behind a deep gray cloud, sending a pre-rain chill over the land. Small rumbles of thunder whispered through the skies, seeming to forewarn of the chaos about to unfold.

"I am a good, decent man who does not lie! If I must die to defend that honor, so be it!" Carrogan cried back, raising his own sword into the air and loosing a cry of battle. The other men did the same, slamming the hilts of their weapons against the armor of their chests in intimidation.

The king's men did the same, and the general heeled his horse forward, after which the other nineteen men followed, swinging their swords as they raced toward the villagers. Carrogan and the other men scattered, so as to separate the group of soldiers from each other and stand a chance of winning their own separate battles.

_Well, this is it. There is nothing we can do now,_ Murtagh said, watching as the villagers actually managed to fend off the soldiers for a small while. _Let us do our gruesome deed and be done with it._

Thorn did not reply, merely grunted, and launched himself into the air and flapped his wings powerfully to rise above the village. He flew past it, then looped back around and flew low, probably only twenty-five feet from the ground, veering off to the right where hardly any battles were occurring between the abandoned homes.

_Forgive me_, Thorn said miserably, then inhaled deeply. Murtagh heard the rumble deep in Thorn's throat, and moments later, the crimson dragon unleashed a torrent of ruby flame upon the village, leaving a straight line following his path of now burning homes.

Thorn pulled up after torching the entire right side of village, and turned back to hit the other side. Most of the battles were occurring in the center of the village, in what passed for the marketplace. However, there were a few in the side streets, and Murtagh's mind flashed with the awful fate of what burning to death must have been like. The only comfort he found as Thorn razed the other side of the village was the fact that a few of the king's soldiers were also caught in the blaze.

_I feel like a cheat,_ Murtagh said, watching as the men fought valiantly against the king's soldiers while their homes burned all around them. _Just sitting up here safe while they fight for their lives._

_So go fight them. It is a sign of respect, is it not? To face a man, sword to sword? _Thorn replied, turning his head and looking at Murtagh with his big scarlet eyes.

_Yes, I suppose it is,_ Murtagh said, sighing. _Take us down._

Thorn dove down to the city, landing just outside of it and crouching so Murtagh could jump off. His heels stung as he hit the ground, and he welcomed the pain. He felt that he needed to be punished for what he was about to do, and any pain inflicted was deserved.

He pulled Zar'roc from its hilt, the blade ringing as it exited. The sun's rays danced off of its surface, making the blade almost as brilliant as the dragon standing beside him.

_Stay here,_ Murtagh said, patting Thorn on the shoulder. _If you get hungry, eat one of the king's men._

Thorn laughed and nuzzled him as he straightened and mentally prepared himself for battle. But a thought struck him then as he watched many of the village men failing miserably in their battles.

_I will give them a fighting chance,_ he said to Thorn, and mentally disabled the magic wards protecting his body from the harm of a weapon.

_What? No! What are you doing?_ Thorn objected.

_I can at least let them feel that they have a chance, even if they do not,_ Murtagh said.

_That is madness, why bring yourself unnecessary pain when you know you will win anyway? _Thorn argued.

_For respect, Thorn. Why would I bother fighting if they will not get a single hit?_

Thorn merely stared, obviously upset at Murtagh's decision and yet seeing the logic in it.

_Do not fret, Thorn. No real harm will come to me. You know I have sparred with Galbatorix enough to be able to fend off a few villagers defending their already ruined homes._

Thorn sighed, lowering his head in agreement. A_t least defend yourself well,_ Thorn begged.

_I shall,_ Murtagh said kindly, and turned to walk into the heart of the burning village.

_I will be watching,_ Thorn promised.

Murtagh walked slowly into the city, peering around at the burning homes, the villagers battling the king's men, the deep skies threatening to burst forth with storms at any moment. The king's men were already winning, having eliminated at least seven villagers already. Murtagh peered around for Carrogan, and found him easily.

Blood lined the redhead's face and clothing, but he seemed to have fared well in his battles. He was facing off against a single soldier, the soldier standing ten feet away from Carrogan, smiling and swinging his sword around in his hand in an attempt to intimidate Carrogan.

Carrogan was not frightened in the least. In his right hand he held his hand and a half sword, just like Murtagh's old one, and in his left, he held a strange, invented weapon. It was a length of rope, probably three feet at most, and on either end were tied several horseshoes. Carrogan weaved; making sure the soldier was still too far to reach with a sword. And then, when the soldier thought Carrogan was trying to flee back into the burning alleyways, he grabbed one end of his makeshift weapon, and heaved it toward the soldier. He had only thrown one end, so as soon as it began to soar through the air, it spun in swift, violent circles. The soldier moved to avoid it, but its length was too much to steer clear of.

The middle of the rope hit the soldier's neck, and the horseshoes sent it wrapping around his neck and sent the soldier sprawling to the ground. Murtagh could instantly tell that this was one of the king's painless soldiers. He was not choking, nor was he trying to remove the rope from suffocating him. The force alone was all that had sent him down.

Carrogan acted quickly, launching over and slamming a foot down on the man's sword-wielding hand, crushing the tiny bones. Again, the soldier did not scream or try to remove his hand from under Carrogan's boot. As the gripping mechanism in that hand died, and he dropped his sword, he began to laugh maniacally.

Murtagh hated them all. The king's painless soldiers were like demons. They felt nothing, not even fear. How could one feel fear when the one thing they had reason to fear was taken away from them? Now they were just empty shells of men, droning along to their orders like machines.

Carrogan paused as he was taken aback by the laughter, but not long. He recovered himself quickly and pounced on the man, sword held high in the air.

"This is for my family and my neighbors!" he growled, and brought the sword down on the man's neck, easily separating the head.

That alone stopped the maniacal laughter.

Murtagh shivered as the remnants of the man's laughter chilled his spine. He watched as Carrogan stood, and spat on the body. He looked up at Murtagh, but did not react to his presence. He merely grabbed his horseshoe weapon from the now headless neck, and pulled it into his grasp, the man's blood soaking his shirt sleeve and hand.

Murtagh sighed, knowing what was to happen. They would have to face each other.

"There comes a time when all good men must fight one another," Carrogan said, wiping blood from his face and staring at Murtagh with intense eyes. His face and clothing were blackened by the fires raging all around him, giving him the rugged look of a warrior.

Carrogan's statement brought Murtagh's mind to his two fights against Eragon, his once friend and companion. He didn't want to fight him, never did. And now it was repetition of his circumstances that was driving him mad. He hated that he must fight, and kill, for someone else's leasure. He clenched his teeth in anger as he hefted Zar'roc.

_You're soul is as pure as your intentions,_ Thorn said kindly in the back of his mind, and Dara's statement echoed through his thoughts as he stepped forward.

"As you say," Murtagh said flatly. "May the best man win."

With that, Carrogan hefted the horseshoe weapon, and threw it at Murtagh just as he had the king's soldier. Murtagh had seen what trying to avoid it had done, so he resorted to magical means. Although he did not want to kill Carrogan, he had to make it a fair fight for himself.

He held up a hand, calling upon his reserves of magic in Zar'roc, and said, "Jierda." The rope severed in the middle, sending the horseshoes on each end harmlessly sprawling to the ground on either side of him, leaving a trail of dust.

It was then that Murtagh realized Carrogan had perhaps never intended to hit Murtagh with the weapon, merely distract him with it. Carrogan had rocketed forward, sword held high, a cry of battle loosed from his lips. Murtagh recovered from his shock quickly, and halted the downward thrust of Carrogan's sword with a horizontal block. They held each other off in a test of strength and will, their blades moaning under the pressure. Both blades rang out as they collided, and Murtagh met Carrogan's eyes.

They were angry and determined, but most off all, they were Moira's eyes. They were the same brilliant emerald; the color of grass after it has been drenched by rain. Murtagh was stunned for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts of her. His hand weakened only slightly, and he was brought back to the present only by a warning shout from Thorn.

_Murtagh!_

It was too late. Carrogan had seen Murtagh's lapse in concentration, and had pulled a dagger from his belt. With a hefty growl, he slammed it just under Murtagh's lowest rib on his right side.

Murtagh cried out, stumbling backward as he felt his own hot blood pouring onto his skin. He could hear an angry snarl from Thorn, but regained his composure and stood up straight.

_It's alright, Thorn!_ he called, checking himself. _It is a surface wound. Do not intervene._

Thorn growled in response, but obeyed Murtagh's command.

Murtagh staggered, knowing full well that it was not just a surface wound. But he had to keep fighting, for Carrogan had seen his lapse in concentration earlier, and was not about to let him recover from the knife wound.

Carrogan rushed him again, battering at him with his sword. This time, Murtagh was ready, fending off each strike easily. His evasion maneuvers were sluggish, his right side screaming in protest at every movement. He did not have time, however, to heal himself. If he focused for even a second on trying to mend his wound, Carrogan could act.

Murtagh knew he was one of the best swordsmen in Alagaesia, and knew how this would end. He just had to find motivation. But what motivation could he find to spur him to kill someone he desperately did not want to kill?

Fear. It was now, and always had been, one of his most powerful emotions. He thought back to his punishments by the king the last times he had failed an order. He thought back to poor Thorn's cries of anguish when they had been tortured for their failure the first time. He would not let himself or Thorn suffer for another foolish mistake.

He snarled angrily as he struck forward powerfully, his heightened strength sending Carrogan stumbling backwards. He did not lose focus, however. He rocketed forward again, battering at Murtagh's blocks with all his might.

Murtagh blocked one after another, getting in several good lunges of his own, backing Carrogan toward the burning houses behind him. Carrogan knew the tables had turned, but continued fighting valiantly.

Murtagh lunged, and Carrogan blocked it to the side. However, the movement of his lunge sent a shock wave of pain rattling from his stab wound and all throughout his body. His movements stalled for a moment, and his limbs began to feel cold.

_This must end_, he thought.

He battered at Carrogan ferociously, this time surprising the man with his speed and strength. Murtagh brought his sword down over Carrogan's head, and Carrogan stopped it desperately with a high horizontal block.

"Forgive me," Murtagh murmured, and with that, he pulled his own dagger from his belt with his free hand and slammed it directly into Carrogan's heart.

Carrogan's face flattened into one of shock and revelation, his sword hand weakening until he dropped it altogether.

Carrogan's sword hit the ground, and he began to fall back, his legs giving out. Murtagh miserably dropped Zar'roc and caught the man and lowered him, shaking, to the ground. It would be only seconds before his system failed.

Carrogan seemed to know Murtagh's true intentions, and reached up to grab his hand with weak, bloody fingers.

"My…" Carrogan stammered, blood seeping from his mouth. "My ring."

Murtagh looked down to Carrogan's right hand, where he saw a large iron ring, plated with a single, small emerald in the center.

"M-Moira. Give it to Moira," Carrogan stuttered, blood trickling from his lips. Murtagh silently removed the ring, staring at its shining, blood-soaked surface.

Murtagh miserably looked back at Carrogan's face, watching as the man slowly stopped choking, and his body went still.

Murtagh sighed, closing Carrogan's eyes gently with his pointer and middle fingers.

"Sé mor'ranr ono finna Fricai," he said sadly, setting Carrogan's body gently on the dirt.

* * *

*Ancient language help (in case you don't have a copy of Eldest or Brisingr lying within grasp):

jierda: break; hit

Sé mor'ranr ono finna Fricai: May you find peace, friend.


	9. Chapter 9

*Couple things before you start: 1.) I have come to the realization that this story is a bit violent for the Teen rating, so it has been moved to mature. 2.) At one point in here, it is from Thorn's perspective. I wrote his point of view as Poalini write's a dragon's view in the books. Things are not called by their names, ideas and concepts are put into simple, child-like wording. That is because that's how Paolini did it in the books. That's why this is under Inheritence Cycle in the books section instead of catagorized with the movie. 3.) If you haven't noticed, I put definitions and translations of the ancient language at the bottom of the chapter. Except the obvious ones like Weise Heill. I figured you guys would know that one. Enjoy!*

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**Part 9**

Murtagh stood, looking down at Carrogan's lifeless body with pity. And yet, he respected him. With the highest of honors. Carrogan had known this would be a futile fight, Murtagh had seen it in his eyes when he stood ready before the king's men. But he had still fought, even though he knew it was hopeless. That took true courage.

Murtagh turned to face the rest of the village, and realized with a sickening twist of his stomach that with the death of Carrogan had come the end of the battle altogether. The king's soldiers stood, talking nonchalantly with each other as the bodies of the fifteen villagers scattered the ground.

Murtagh sighed as he knelt and picked up Zar'roc, sheathing it as he walked solemnly to the entrance of the village, where Thorn was watching him with intense, sad eyes. He was intending to mount Thorn and fly away from all of this immediately, but movement caught his eye.

To his right was a group of the king's soldiers, and lying on the ground in the middle of their quasi-circle was the lifeless body of a young man, presumably one of the villagers. There was no way he was even over eighteen. Murtagh's heart nearly jumped into his throat.

It nearly did back flips when he saw the king's soldiers kicking, hitting, and spitting on the body. Anger boiled up inside him so ferociously that his sight went red.

"You filthy sacks of shit!" he yelled, running over and grabbing one of the soldiers and throwing him to the ground. All of them laughed, even the man he had thrown down.

"Show some respect!" he spat at them, looking at the others with rage in his eyes.

"To rebels? Are you kidding me?" one of the soldiers sneered back.

"These are not rebels!" he nearly screamed, getting right up into the man's face. "They weren't even _harboring_ rebels. You think rebels would be so poorly trained in combat? The king did this to torture _me!_"

"It obviously worked, didn't it fella's?" the soldier joked, looking around at the other men.

Murtagh's rage boiled up again, and he lost control of it. He hardly ever lost control, and when he did, bad things happened. Although this time, he was willing to let it unfold.

Without warning, he pulled Zar'roc from his sheath and beheaded the man before anyone even had a chance to move.

He panted as he watched the headless body collapse to the ground, blood seeping into the dirt.

"Anyone else have a comment they would like to share with me?" he snarled at them, gritting his teeth in his anger.

The men were silent, shocked that the king's gofer was such a loaded canon.

"That's what I thought," Murtagh murmured, and sheathed Zar'roc and walked back over to Thorn, where the crimson dragon was watching him closely.

"Filthy bastards," Murtagh muttered, and raised his right hand to lay it on Thorn's shoulder.

A blazing pain ran up his right side, so intense that his vision blacked out and his extremities failed. He cried out, falling clumsily to his knees and grasping at the stab wound below his lowest rib on his right side. His own blood immediately soaked his hand, and he realized that it had saturated his shirt and his whole right pant leg. He hadn't realized how much he had been bleeding.

_Murtagh!_ Thorn exclaimed, nuzzling him nervously.

_Help me,_ Murtagh said, barely able to piece his sentence together through the pain. _I need strength to heal it. Strength that I do not have._

Thorn poured energy into Murtagh, and his sight finally ceased the tunnel vision. His limbs still tingled, but the chill that had weakened them dissipated.

Murtagh pulled the shirt up, exposing the wound. It looked far worse than he had thought it was. And the amount of blood was staggering. He blinked off the nausea that welled up, and held a hand over the wound.

"Weíse heill," he said weakly, running his hand the length of the gash. He winced and moaned as the muscle repaired itself and the skin mended, first with a burning sensation, quickly followed by relief. His skin tingled, but the wound was mended.

Murtagh groaned and fell back off of his knees to rest against Thorn's right foreleg.

_Are you alright? _Thorn asked hurriedly, looking at him through worried eyes.

_Will be,_ Murtagh replied, merely trying to catch his breath. _I must have been running on adrenaline. I will desperately need to eat something upon our return to Uru'baen._

Thorn studied him for a long while, then let him be. Murtagh watched the king's soldiers return to their horses. Some of the horses had been slain by the villagers, but there were enough to take the sixteen soldiers that had survived back to Uru'baen. Murtagh watched them go, then clumsily pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaking from the blood loss.

_Will you be alright for the flight back?_ Thorn asked, watching Murtagh stumble as he walked toward the saddle.

_I must be,_ Murtagh said back, and even his thoughts sounded jumbled.

Thorn sighed and lied down so Murtagh could get on easily. Murtagh got his left foot into the stirrup, but when he went to hoist himself up, his heart pounded and his sight and limbs began to fail again.

_Easy, bjartkala,_ Thorn warned, and stretched his neck around to give Murtagh a shove from behind as he tried again to pull himself into the saddle. This time, with Thorn's aid, he made it lazily into his saddle.

_Alright, let us go,_ Murtagh said, the effort of even holding up his head seeming too much. _The sooner we return, the sooner I can rest._

Thorn didn't waste a second. He stretched his wings out, crouching and launching himself into the air without so much as a running start.

_Torch the rest of the village,_ Murtagh said. _It is a far better funeral than what they will receive if we just leave them._

Thorn huffed in agreement and doubled back. He took a deep, rumbling breath as he neared, and unleashed the inferno over the rest of the village, swallowing up the marketplace and the bodies of the brave villagers who died to protect it.

Thorn turned east then, and flew gently, to preserve Murtagh's waning strength. He poured energy into him if ever he felt faint, but he could not give too much due to the fact that he hadn't eaten for a while either. The skies opened up soon after, sending torrents of rain and crashing thunder over Alagaesia. But Murtagh did not bother to shield himself. He was drenched to the bone by the time Uru'baen came into sight.

Murtagh was barely clinging to consciousness when they arrived at the castle at Uru'baen. He even collapsed to the ground upon dismounting Thorn, his body trembling from the cold and exhaustion. His vision spun as he rested on the ground for a moment, then meekly pulled himself to his feet.

_Thorn, meet me in our room. I will speak to the king,_ he said.

They were always required to meet with the king after every mission to report on their success or failure. But Murtagh was sure the king would be angry that he had warned the village, and it was an action whose punishment needed only rest on him.

_No. I will not leave you to bare the king's wrath alone,_ Thorn said defensively.

_Please, Thorn,_ Murtagh begged, his alertness waning in strength. Thorn could hear it even in his thoughts. _I do not want to argue with you. He wanted me to kill Moira. That's why he sent us. It was I alone who chose to warn her and send her away. I will not let you be punished for yet another disappointing message to the king._

Thorn grunted and prepared himself to argue, but they were both distracted when a feminine cry of worry met their ears. It was Dara, standing at the entrance of the castle, staring flabbergasted at the blood soaking Murtagh's clothing.

"My lord, what happened?" she gasped, running to him and trying to examine him.

"It's fine, I healed it. There is no need to worry yourself. I just need to rest, that's all," Murtagh said, trying to make himself sound stronger. He began to walk toward the entrance, but unsupported, he staggered a bit and was barely caught by Dara as he fell sideways.

"You must rest. Now. You have lost far too much blood," she said, helping him walk toward the door.

"No. I will meet a worse fate if I do not report to the king," he protested.

_Thorn, _please_ meet me in our rooms,_ Murtagh begged again, and Thorn sighed.

_Fine,_ the dragon replied curtly. _But if you are gone more than five minutes, I will come and get you. No matter the consequences that will befall me._

Murtagh agreed, and Thorn took off to fly around the great building. Dara helped Murtagh stumble through the castle, all the way to the king's quarters. However, he would not allow her to assist him past that point. He had to look as presentable as possible to Galbatorix, and being aided to walk was not a great way to do so.

So, still trembling quite badly, he straightened, held his head as high as he could, and entered the king's chamber.

As before, Galbatorix was seated in his throne, looking pensive. His eyes went to Murtagh upon his entry, and his surprise at Murtagh's appearance barely shown on his stoic features.

"Is it done, then?" the king asked, looking Murtagh up and down, judging him. Murtagh was sure he looked of anything but a warrior. His clothes and hair were soaked, his right side was drenched in his own blood, and he was sure his skin was pale as the moon from blood loss.

"Yes, my lord. It is done," he replied, his voice cracking in his attempt to sound resolved.

"Everyone is dead? The village destroyed? Thorta du ilumëo," the last part was an order, and Murtagh cursed to himself.

"The village is destroyed, but the women and children escaped before the infantry could arrive," he said, his voice shaking. The longer he stood, his vision was constantly getting fuzzy at the edges, and it was slowly creeping inward.

"You warned them, didn't you? I told you to destroy the village and kill everyone in it. So you sent them away. Didn't you!" Galbatorix snarled, low and vicious.

Murtagh could not lie. He had been ordered to tell the truth.

"Yes," he said in reply, his hands shaking as he tried to keep upright. His limbs had gone cold again, and his vision was tunneled, blackness swallowing him slowly.

Galbatorix cursed in his anger, slamming an angry fist down on the armrest. But Murtagh had no energy left to fear the king's rage. His vision spun, and he staggered slightly. The king watched curiously for a moment, until the chill that was eating up Murtagh's limbs finally crawled inward to engulf his mind and core. He stumbled again, this time hitting the ground. His vision had gone completely black, and he could no longer hear what was going on around him. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, constantly getting louder. He felt someone kneel beside him, but could not judge who it was before the darkness swallowed him whole.

* * *

Thorn waited anxiously in the room, pacing its length, careful not to knock any of Murtagh's earthly-belongings with his tail. He was counting the seconds until he could go to Murtagh. He hated having to wait on the two-legs. They were always bickering or arguing over something, and Thorn did not like it. His kind fought for what they wanted, and that was the end of it. Well, they would have, if he had ever spent time with his kind, which had only ever happened in his sessions with Shruikan. Cursed-soul-black-scales was a strange being to encounter. It was hard to tell if he enjoyed what he was doing or not, due to the dark magic demon-king Galbatorix had on him, binding him in servitude.

Thorn wished he could call out to Bjartkala, just to make sure he was all right. But alas, whenever Murtagh went to the king alone, he closed off his mind, just to guard his private thoughts from the king. Thorn saw the necessity in it, but despised it nonetheless.

Thorn sighed, still pacing the room, his white claws clicking and scratching at the stone floors. He was about to leap from the balcony and fly to the king's open chamber, but he began to hear pounding footsteps approaching down the hall. He stopped, listening intently as they neared.

The door banged open, and Dara entered, supporting a questionably conscious Murtagh under her left arm. Murtagh was leaning against her, attempting to walk, but was more stumbling than walking. Thorn snorted in anger, and watched Dara lead Murtagh over to his stone slab of a bed, where he collapsed onto it, his whole body convulsing. Thorn did not usually communicate with two-legs other than Murtagh and the king, but he decided to make an exception.

_What is wrong?_ he asked hurriedly of Dara. The woman jumped, turning to look around, trying to find a two-legged to place the voice with.

_Hey. Up here,_ Thorn said, not in the mood to be gentle. Dara realized that it was Thorn speaking, and the shock gave her pause.

She recovered quickly, however. "He has lost far too much blood," Dara said, pulling Murtagh into a sitting position, his head rolling dangerously, and pulling his shirt off over his head. She spoke aloud, and Thorn figured that not many two-leg non-riders knew exactly how the connection worked. He was fine with it, for now.

_How can that be mended?_ Thorn pleaded, looking from Dara to Murtagh.

"Well he needed to rest long before he even arrived here, much less stand at attention while the king drills him," Dara said, a slight anger in her voice as well. Thorn was glad that other king-servants were as miserable as he and Murtagh were. It helped him feel less alone.

_Well what can we do now?_ Thorn asked, watching Dara examine Murtagh for any injuries. Thorn knew she would find none, none that had been inflicted recently, anyway. Murtagh had healed it, but not before he had lost the blood.

"I don't know. Healers, perhaps," she said nervously, opening one of Murtagh's eyes and examining his pupils.

"Stand aside," Thorn heard from behind him, and he sidestepped to the side of the room to reveal the king himself, walking nonchalantly and removing his leather gloves. "I shall mend it."

Thorn watched, shocked, as the king approached the bed, Dara stepping aside obediently and lowering her head in submission. The king held his hands out over Murtagh's violently shivering form, and began speaking words in the ancient language that Thorn had not yet heard.

Murtagh's body reacted immediately, his back arching and his face setting into a hard grimace. A small pained moan escaped his lips, and he began to breath heavily. Thorn whimpered in empathy, but didn't dare tell the king to stop. Murtagh began to shiver worse, and kick and thrash as the king, supposedly, created blood in his very veins. Thorn tried to enter Murtagh's mind to support him, but the poor boy was confused and disoriented, not allowing anyone in. Thorn decided it was best to leave him be.

The king worked on him for a long while, Thorn pacing as he watched Murtagh thrash and eventually, scream. Dara stood silently, watching with obedient and yet sympathetic eyes. Thorn hoped it was over soon. He could not bear to hear Murtagh's pained cries much longer.

* * *

* Thorta du ilumëo: Speak the truth


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 10**

When Murtagh awoke, he felt as though he had been thrown off of a cliff, burned, and then beaten for good measure. His entire body ached, and he vaguely remembered blacking out while speaking with Galbatorix, followed soon thereafter by intense pain. He could remember sensations, jumbled speaking, but to his knowledge he had not been conscious. Something told him it was better that way.

He stretched, every muscle aching as he did so. He opened his eyes gingerly, and noticed that he was in his own room, the door to the balcony was shut, and the drapes were pulled too, letting in a snakelike sliver of sunlight in at their base.

He looked around, seeing Thorn dozing in his spot in front of the balcony doors, and directly to Murtagh's left was Dara, seated against the wall with her eyes closed. He didn't know how long they had been there, but he really had no desire to find out. What he really needed was something to eat. Although the exhaustion had subsided, his hunger had not.

He sat up tentatively, testing his sore muscles. They protested, but it was nothing compared to the strange sickness that had befallen him upon their return. He supposed it was just blood loss, but he wouldn't know until he spoke to someone.

He sat up, only then realizing that he was topless, under his own sheets. He pushed them off and stretched again, relieved to be feeling better.

Dara must have heard his movement, because she slowly opened her eyes and looked up at him. Upon seeing that he was awake, she launched to her feet, questioning him.

"You're awake! How do you feel?" she said, examining his face and eyes.

Apparently she had shocked Thorn out of his slumber with her speech, because the large dragon jumped awake, his front claws extending and slamming down on the stone floor like a startled cat. His head jerked around, looking for the source of the noise like a deer. Seeing that it was only Murtagh and Dara, he lowered his head sheepishly.

"Scare ya, Thorn?" Murtagh asked happily, raising an eyebrow at Thorn in a joking manner.

_No,_ Thorn said defiantly, stretching his front legs and standing so he could walk over.

_Sure,_ Murtagh replied sarcastically, staring around.

"What happened?" he asked Dara, throwing his sheets back and tossing his legs over the side so he could sit up, rubbing his eyes.

"You blacked out. You didn't have enough blood to be standing that long. I brought you back here with the intention of calling on a healer, but… the king himself came," Dara finished, seeming frightened just to be speaking of the king.

"What?!" Murtagh gasped, looking at her quizzically.

"He healed you himself. He did not seem happy about it, though" Dara said.

"It's Galbatorix. Is he ever happy with anything?" Murtagh asked, rubbing his temples.

Dara nodded, agreeing with the statement. "He used the blood in your body to duplicate it and create more. At least, I think that's what he did. I don't think he was gentle about it either."

"No, I don't believe he was. That, I remember vaguely," Murtagh said, looking around for his clothes.

"He worked on you for almost an hour. It was… difficult to watch," Dara said, obviously sympathetic as she stared back at him.

Murtagh looked at Thorn, and instantly, visions of what had occurred flooded into his mind. It was a scene from Thorn's point of view, about ten feet above everyone else. Murtagh could see himself lying on his own bed, Galbatorix standing over him with his hands outstretched in the air. Galbatorix was muttering words in the ancient language that he had never heard before. Murtagh watched as his own form thrashed and convulsed, violent screams emitting from him.

Murtagh shivered and shoved the memory from his mind, not wishing to see any more.

_Well, that does not look pleasant. Something tells me it is a very good thing I was not aware at the moment,_ Murtagh said with another shudder.

_Yes, you are correct in that regard. I nearly tore the king's head off just watching,_ Thorn said, snorting in a puff of smoke.

Murtagh looked back at Dara, who was eyeing him for signs of weakness. "I think I'm fine now, Dara. Thank you for watching over me. How long have I been unconscious?"

"Not too long," Dara replied, stepping back, satisfied that he would be alright by himself."When the king finished, you passed out instantly, and you've only slept through half of the day."

Murtagh thought back to the fight, and the stab wound Carrogan had inflicted on him. His throat tightened as he remembered how much blood had been covering his clothes.

"My clothes? Where are they?" he asked.

"I sent them to be cleaned. There was much blood on them," Dara said, shivering as she apparently remembered the amount as well.

Murtagh panicked for a moment. "The pockets. Did you check the pockets?"

"Oh, yes," Dara said, obviously remembering something and turning to pull an item from her dress. "There was this."

With a sigh of relief, Murtagh watched as Dara dropped Carrogan's blood-soaked ring into his palm. He turned it over and over, looking at the blood smears on the ring itself and the emerald set in the middle

"What is it?" Dara asked.

"It belonged to a man I killed," Murtagh said woefully. "He wanted me to give it to his sister. I… I know her."

"Ah," Dara said in reply, and stepped back. "Would you like something to eat?"

Murtagh nearly yelled in joy at the thought. "Yeeees," he said, dragging it out for emphasis. Dara laughed, and turned to exit the room.

"I will bring it to you. You rest," she said, closing the door as she left.

_I was worried about you, Bjartkala,_ Thorn said, sighing and lying back down in his spot on the other side of the room.

Murtagh smiled, standing and walking to the balcony doors, throwing the curtains open to allow the natural light in. He squinted against the brightness as he threw the doors open, but reveled in it nonetheless.

_I wonder what the king will do about me warning the villagers. He certainly is not through with me yet,_ Murtagh said, taking a deep breath of fresh air.

_I don't know,_ Thorn said, sniffing the air that came barreling in. _He never ceases to surprise me with his… creativity._

Murtagh nodded in agreement, then turned and patted Thorn on the shoulder, sighing in disappointment.

_Is this all life will be for us?_ he asked solemnly. _One constant instance of pain and suffering after another? I told Eragon that life was too sweet for us, but that was before. Perhaps I should have let him kill me._

_Do not say such things!_ Thorn said, nudging him with his snout. _I don't know what I would do without you._

_You would live a normal, free life,_ Murtagh said, leaning against Thorn's shoulder and staring out the open doors.

_No, I would live an empty, hollowed existence, free of companionship or happiness,_ Thorn huffed.

Murtagh decided that arguing with Thorn was like arguing with a donkey; completely fruitless. He decided to change the subject.

_Why do you suspect the king healed me himself? That seems very odd for him, _he said, picking at his fingernails.

_I would say just good courtesy if it were any other person. But for him? The most likely scenario is that he wanted leverage against you. Now you owe him something, _Thorn replied.

_Yes, judging by his character, I believe you may be onto something. But it still seems odd. He doesn't need leverage against me. He can make me do whatever he wants,_ Murtagh replied.

_That, too, is true. Perhaps he knew the mending process would be painful. It is not uncharacteristic of him to just enjoy hurting you,_ Thorn said, looking down at Murtagh.

Murtagh sighed, knowing that both options were highly likely. So he just smiled halfheartedly and waited for Dara to return with his meal.

After polishing off what Murtagh assumed was half of the food available in the kitchen, he decided to go down to Galbatorix's library. Back when the Varden had imprisoned him, Nasuada had supplied him with a few old scriptures, and they had enthralled him. Galbatorix's collection was nowhere near as extensive or unique, but they were scripture nonetheless. Most of it was education on the Ancient language, which Murtagh skimmed, and others were written by the king himself; notes on shortcuts and simplified spells that he had discovered.

Murtagh was at first looking for nothing in particular, just a way to escape for a while, a way to avoid the king. He skimmed through the handwritten notes, reading over some of the spells. The king had already taught him most, but there were some which were not necessary to battle, therefore the king had not instructed him.

It was then that he came across one, one that might aid him. It was similar to a contacting spell, the one he used in mirrors or pails of water when he wanted to speak to someone over a long distance. But this was different. This one allowed the seeker to watch the person they were looking for, but not hear or communicate. The other would never even know they were being watched.

Murtagh sat up, reading further into the writings, an idea striking him. He studied the words, seeing exactly what literal meaning it would convey. And alas, it would work. He excitedly rolled the scroll up and put it in his shirt pocket and returned to his room. Thorn was absent, so Murtagh assumed he had gone hunting. After all, he had stayed with Murtagh all night, and had to be famished.

Murtagh sat at his bed, pulling out a pail of water that he usually used to clean his saddle and other leather belongings. He pulled the scroll from his shirt, examining the words again, just to be cautious.

He heard the rhythmic pattern of Thorn's wings approaching, and watched as the open drapes jumped inward as the dragon landed on the balcony and entered the room, seeming content.

_Ah, you have returned,_ Thorn said, licking his chops. _Find anything of use?_

_Yes, actually,_ Murtagh said, looking back down at the parchment. _I'm going to use it to find Moira. Make sure she is safe._

Thorn nodded, looking down at Murtagh and seating himself to watch.

Murtagh skimmed the page again, and found that there were notes scribbled below the spell. They instructed that the spell would not work on those who could guard their mind from intruders.

"Ah," Murtagh said. "This explains why he was not able to find me when I fled all that time ago. He can now, since he can get into my mind. It also explains why he is unable to locate Eragon on a regular basis. Let us hope that continues."

Murtagh straightened, looking into the pail of water, then up at Thorn one more time. Thorn raised his scaly eyebrows in anticipation, and Murtagh finally turned to the water troth.

"Adurna tauthr gata du Moira," he said, picturing her clearly in his mind as he spoke the words.

The surface of the water ripple outward in response, turning a milky cloud color just below the surface. It then rippled again, and a picture was revealed, as clear as if the water's surface was a window. And in that window stood two women, one older with long graying hair and a flowing maroon dress, and the other strikingly beautiful, her fiery hair pulled elegantly back to reveal her stunning face.

Moira.

She was speaking to the other woman, but Murtagh could not hear their words due to the specificity of the spell. But he did not care. Now he knew she was safe. Now, he could be content.

He just sat, silently, for the longest time and watched her. Sometimes she would speak with the older woman, sometimes she would just grow quiet and look out the open doors behind her at a lake and long rows of trees. She was absentmindedly twining rope in her in her fingers as she stared longingly out the doors, listening, but not replying to the woman she was with.

Murtagh wondered what she was longing for. The knowledge of her brother's fate, perhaps. The fate of her home, her neighbors' homes. Something inside Murtagh desperately wanted her to long for him. But he doubted that greatly.

Then he remembered something. He pulled Carrogan's ring from his pocket, turning it over and over as he thought.

_Will you take it to her?_ Thorn asked.

_I don't know if I can,_ Murtagh replied, smoothing off some of the crusted blood with the hem of his shirt. _The king will certainly be keeping a close eye on me from now on._

_That is true. Even if you did not take me, he would be watching to keep you from leaving on Tornac,_ Thorn sighed.

_I have to find a way,_ Murtagh vowed. _Even if it is the last time I see her. I have to take this to her. I know what it is like, having only one item as inheritance. I know what it is like to need something. Closure, I suppose is the word._

_Yes, I know you do,_ Thorn replied, his eyes wandering to Zar'roc where it lay, sheathed, by his saddle.

_And even if I did decide to go to her, I don't know where she is,_ Murtagh exhaled. _Carrogan told her to take her fellow villagers to Dras-Leona, but it is a massive city. Not to mention it is flooded with the king's patrols, and they would surely notice me._

Thorn slumped, obviously seeing Murtagh's dilemma. _Is there anything in the image that could tell you where she is? _Thorn asked.

_No,_ Murtagh moaned back in disappointment. _She is inside. How is one home any different than other… _he trailed off, noticing something in the image behind Moira's slender form. _Wait a minute,_ Murtagh said, becoming hopeful.

He lowered himself above the image in the water, studying it closely. _That must be Leona Lake behind the home. And those trees… I have seen them before. They are in linear rows! It is a vineyard, I have been there before! I know where that is!_

_Wonderful,_ Thorn replied. _Now we just have to find a way to get away from the king without him noticing._

Murtagh slumped, remembering that part of his predicament.

_You don't suppose you could ask the king, do you? _Thorn asked.

_Ask him if I can go to her?! _Murtagh gasped. _That's absurd, he would never allow…_

_But if you vowed that it would be the last time you would ever see her. If you swore in the ancient language…_ Thorn said, tilting his head questioningly.

Murtagh thought on it. He desperately did not want to do that. That would mean that he would never see her again. If the Varden did fail in their attempt to overthrow the king, and he was permanently Galbatorix's slave, then he would truly have no one. But then again, it would eternally remove her from harm's path. If he vowed to never see her again, then she would be free to move on with her life, with no more repercussion's from the empire.

Murtagh sighed, his shoulders drooping. _I suppose you are right,_ he said sadly. _It will be better for both of us that way._

Murtagh could feel Thorn's empathy pouring into him. _I know it is a difficult decision, Bjartkala. But you are doing the right thing. You are a courageous person, my rider._

Murtagh certainly didn't feel that way. Especially with the butterflies that crept slowly into his stomach at the thought of asking such a thing of the king. But he had to. For Moira's sake, and his own.

*Adurna tauthr gata du Moira: Water, reveal the location of Moira (literally- Water, follow the path of Moira)

*Bjartkala (in case you have forgotten): Bright eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

Part 11

Murtagh steeled himself as he stood outside the king's quarters, trying to gain the courage it would take to beg something of this magnitude of the king. The only thing keeping his throat from closing in anxiety was the fact that it needed to be done. It _had_ to be done. He held his chin high, clenched his fists, and took a deep breath as he pushed open the giant doors.

The king was not in his throne as he usually was, but this time was standing in the open doors of his own balcony, looking out over the lands below. He slowly turned, eyeing Murtagh critically.

Murtagh knelt, lowering his head in obedience and waiting for the king to reply.

"Rise," Galbatorix stated simply, striding over and circling him once, still looking him over.

Murtagh stood, his nerves jumping when the king was directly behind him.

"I see you are feeling better," Galbatorix sneered, obviously mocking Murtagh's state the previous night.

"Yes, my lord. And, as I hear, all thanks to your generous hospitality," Murtagh said, half intending the statement to be sarcastic, half not. He waited to judge the king's reaction.

Galbatorix paused, narrowing his eyes, but did not comment. "As I gleaned from your memories when I was repairing the damage, you allowed such an injury to happen. So I have little sympathy."

Murtagh had a hard time believing the king could _ever_ show sympathy.

"First, you dismounted Thorn," Galbatorix continued. "Then, you removed your wards. Then, after all these signs that you would receive injury, you allowed yourself to be _distracted._"

Murtagh sighed, remembering how Carrogan's eyes had been the same as Moira's.

"I apologize for any inconvenience it may have caused _you,_" Murtagh said, setting his face into one of pacification.

Galbatorix again narrowed his eyes in condescension, but did not act. "Why have you come to me, Murtagh?" the king asked flatly, turning and walking to his throne, where he simply stood, waiting for a reply.

Murtagh took a deep breath. "To ask something of you, my lord," he said, lowering his gaze from the king's, afraid of what he might find within it.

"You wish a favor of _me_?" Galbatorix hissed. "After what constant failures you have brought me? When you have done nothing to merit such a deed? Why should I?"

"I…" Murtagh began, looking back up. "I only wish to return something to her. An inheritance. And I will swear oaths that it will be the last time," Murtagh said, his words sounding begged.

The king thought deeply. He obviously despised the idea of granting Murtagh the opportunity to see Moira again. But the concept of having Murtagh swear that he never would again enticed him.

Galbatorix rubbed his slight beard as he thought. "On the one hand," he began, pacing before his throne. "I am allowing you a privilege which you have never given reason to earn. You do not teach a dog tricks by allowing it to behave badly."

Murtagh fidgeted under the comparison, but did not speak.

"On the other hand, I could force you to denounce your own weakness, which I have already tried to do once and failed. And then there is a third option," the king said, stepping down from his throne and approaching Murtagh. He stared a cold, bottomless glare at Murtagh, one Murtagh almost could not hold. "I could force you to swear that you will never see her again right now, and spare myself indulging you."

Murtagh sighed, not having thought of that. Galbatorix could easily force him to swear to it by order of his true name. He bit his lip in frustration; staring back at the king with what he was sure was a desperate face.

"However," the king said, an epiphany obviously striking him. "I do like the idea of you having to go to her, knowing it will never happen again. To have something within your grasp, so close you can taste it's sweet nectar, and yet having to let it slip," the king made the motion of dropping something, "through your fingers."

Anger boiled up at the king's ferocity, but again, he bade himself remain silent.

"Yes, I believe I like this idea very much," the king said contently, smiling a mirthless smile to himself. "Kneel," the king commanded, and Murtagh did so obediently.

When the king spoke, it was a binding contract in the ancient language, beginning with his true name. "Will you swear, that upon departing, it will be your last travel in that particular direction? Do you swear, that upon seeing Moira, it will be the last time you do so? Will you swear to never speak to me of her again? Will you swear to it?"

Murtagh clenched his fists, bit his lip, and swallowed his anxiety. "I swear."

The king, having no more to say to Murtagh, dismissed him with a wave of his hand and a turned back. Murtagh thought deeply about what he had just done as he walked through the halls back to his quarters.

Murtagh shoved open the doors to his room, considering the repercussions of this.

_So?_ Thorn asked, staring with raised eyebrows.

_Well… he said yes,_ Murtagh said. _But only because he knows it will hurt me, having to say goodbye._

Thorn looked at him sympathetically, and nudged him with his snout. _It will be alright, Bjartkala. You know it is for the best. That alone makes you an incredible man._

_I don't feel that way,_ Murtagh said, taking Carrogan's ring from his pants' pocket and staring into the gem's depths.

Thorn was silent for a while, watching Murtagh closely. He then huffed a sigh and stood.

_So what are you waiting for?_ The young red dragon asked, a bit more chipper this time. _Let's go see her!_

Murtagh smiled at Thorn's enthusiasm. _Alright, _he said, not bothering with the saddle.

Thorn knelt, Murtagh crawled on, and they headed straight out the balcony. _You know exactly where we're headed? _Thorn asked as his wings caught the draft that collided with the building and diverted upwards, sending him straight into the mid-afternoon sky.

_Not exactly,_ Murtagh replied, closing his eyes and just feeling the wind. _But the longer it takes me to find it, the longer we're away, right?_

_Sounds like a plan to me,_ Thorn said gleefully, shaking his head in delight.

The flight to Dras-Leona would take longer than the flight to Altair, Murtagh new. So he had time to think of many things. First, he thought of Eragon. It was a topic his mind frequently went to, just out of sheer nostalgia. He thought of Eragon's solution to their problem.

_I do wonder how, exactly, one can change so much as to alter their true name. Especially without becoming better or worse. Eragon said we would just have to be _different, Murtagh said aimlessly to Thorn.

_I do not know. Every way I have thought of would make us worse. And, as you told him, we do the best we can. There is hardly a way to become better,_ Thorn said.

Murtagh, sighed, puzzled. _I just don't know. And even if we did, what would we do? I do not want to join the Varden. First, I want to get as far from the king as possible, and fighting against him would hardly do that. Second, as I told Eragon when I joined with him all that time ago, I do not share his vendetta against the Empire. The king is flawed, the means of upholding law is flawed, but the system itself is sound. _

_We could always just flee. Fly as far from here as possible. Where the king could not find us, where the Varden could not find us. They certainly will not let us live, after you killed the dwarf king._

_Oh yes, that,_ Murtagh sighed. _Not to mention our work for the king. I scarcely think they would find our servitude excuse enough to save us from consequence. _

_I still cling to the hope that Eragon and Saphira would understand,_ Thorn said.

_Yes, but even the great Eragon is bound by fealty to them. If they wish our death, he must provide it. We are truly stuck, no matter what happens,_ Murtagh groaned.

_All the more reason to live for the moment now,_ Thorn said, pulling in his wings and flying faster toward Dras-Leona.

As the great lake city of Dras-Leona began to loom nearer, Murtagh's mind went to Carrogan and the ring. He began to wonder if Moira would even forgive him for the death of her brother. This trip could end up being a very brief one. She might just take the ring and banish him.

He truly hoped not. She was his one escape. The one thing he could hold for his own. The one person who had shown faith and trust when no one else would. He wanted his last moments with her to be cherished. But if she bade him go, then he would. He never knew why, but he was forever bound by a deep sense of propriety. Not so much in his interactions with men. Diplomacy was below him. But with women; any women, he felt a higher power to treat them with dignity. He had not encountered many women in his lifetime; Nasuada and Moira being the only two prominent ones. But he had shown them respect. And he would not cease that now, when the woman's fate depended on his strength of will.

He sighed as Dras-Leona crept ever nearer. _Here we go,_ he moaned to Thorn.

He could nearly feel Thorn's smile as he tucked his wings and dove toward the great city, angling over it and to its border on the shore of the lake. Murtagh scanned the banks, already seeing terrified people running from their homes and looking to the skies as if expecting their doom to come in the form of the great ruby flying above them. And indeed it might. Just not today.

It took him only moments to spot the massive vineyard. There were tall, blooming trees lined in neat rows against the shore, and before them was a massive estate. The home was made in a dark wood, and was at least two stories. As Thorn circled and turned back to land, Murtagh saw a balcony overlooking the trees, and beyond those, the lake. That must have been where Moira was standing when he had located her. He smiled at the mere thought of seeing her again.

_Moira,_ he sighed.


End file.
